


Ghost of the Sun

by Phosphorite



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Dissociation, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-05 17:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13393245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosphorite/pseuds/Phosphorite
Summary: On this morning Noctis Lucis Caelum is twenty-nine years, eleven months and fourteen days old, and in two weeks he will become King; but sometimes his mind is lost in the static like a distorted feed, and the whole world feels as though it lingers.Or,“…Hey, Prom, you ever feel like… you remember things that didn’t actually happen?”[canon compliant + alternate reality]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm not quite sure how I found myself here, but here goes: the concept of this fic has haunted me for weeks now, and when I finally had time to sit down and write, it literally came out in a matter of days. So while I should be working on other things (and am), I guess this means these two idiots have lodged themselves somewhere so deep in my brain that there's no escape. Also, the title comes from a song by Katatonia because I am _that_ person.
> 
> The story comes in four parts to make it easier to read, but it's all completed by the time of posting this first chapter; I will be adding the next ones within the span of a few days.
> 
> So enjoy, or don't, etc.

 

 

do you remember when  
it didn’t use to be so dark  
and everything was possible  
still 

\- _the one you are looking for is not here_ , katatonia

 

 

He awakens to the sound of silence.

The air is light with the glow of early morning, rays of a dawning sun filtering past the high windows and curtains draped in velvet. For a moment the whole world feels as though it lingers, and he draws in a breath; it comes out unusually shallow.

There’s a knock on the door. A calm, assertive sound that awaits no response before the doors of his bedroom are pushed open, followed by the entrance of a man he has watched walk through countless of times in the past in the exact same manner: one hand holding the doorframe, another balancing a small tray with a cup and a small pot of coffee.

“Good morning, Your _Highness_.”

He takes another deep breath, pulls himself upright against the headboard of the bed. Watches in silence as the tray is placed on the bedside table, listens to the small intake of breath and a curious glance at his windows.

“Were the curtains not drawn last night? Too much light will intervene with your sleeping schedule. I can find out which of the maids was in charge of evening duty, if you’d like.”

He shakes his head in response.

“It’s fine. It’s easier for me to… wake up to the sun.”

His hand instinctively reaches out for the cup, then waits as the smell of freshly ground coffee hits his nose. Lifting the cup up to eye-level, he pauses for a moment to stare at his reflection on its surface: the familiar dark hair that falls down to frame his face, the slight hint of a stubble along the curve of his jaw, the blue eyes that seem wearier than the day before. 

On this morning, Noctis Lucis Caelum is twenty-nine years, eleven months and fourteen days old, and the sun that dances spreads through the window dances across the bedspread until it touches his hands.

On his bedside, Ignis clears his throat.

“If you would like to know your schedule for the day,” he begins, gently correcting the position of his glasses, “At breakfast, His Majesty requested the two of you go over some formalities before tomorrow’s departure. For lunch, you are to join the Western hall with Lady Lunafreya and the children. As for the rest of the day…”

Ignis trails off a little, and a soft smile joins the light tilt of his head.

“…I cleared out your entire schedule. I know what day it is today, so I thought… the two of you might appreciate some privacy before we leave." 

Noctis catches himself smiling, despite the fact that the reflection that greets him on the side cup comes out distorted, and wearier than the day before.

On this morning, Noctis Lucis Caelum is twenty-nine years, eleven months and fourteen days old, and in two weeks he will become King.

 

*

 

The table at the Western hall is set for four: Noctis, Luna, and the children. 

The older of the two is at her feet the second he appears in the doorway; her whole face lights up, and then she is running, scrambling to climb up his arms like a tiny woodland animal, all blonde curls and purple eyes and laughter that rings out in the large dining room.

“Uncle Noct!”

From the corner of his eye he watches Luna gaze at them fondly, one hand draped around her son. He’s the quieter one of the two, but still offers a wide, sunny smile as Noctis carries Luna’s eldest child to the table.

“Iolanda. Jules,” he acknowledges both children in succession, before nodding softly at Luna. “…Luna. I trust all three of you slept well?”

Her smile is a soft glow that reaches all the way up to her eyes. “We did. We always do. Anything the children or I ever find ourselves in want of, I need but turn around and it’s there. I don’t know how Ignis does it.”

“Nobody ever does,” Noctis hears himself agreeing, before he becomes distracted by Iolanda splaying her drawings of Umbra and Pryna on the table, by Jules shyly sharing tales of their early morning adventures, by Luna gently chiding her children for ignoring their lunch; by the sounds of life that echo in the hall with each clink of silverware and water poured into crystal glasses.

Later, all four of them take a stroll in the royal gardens. Iolanda chases after her brother on the stone-lined pathway by the pond, and Noctis feels Luna sliding a warm hand in his. 

“…So, how do you feel?”

He glances down at her. “…About the lunch, or the ascension?”

She lets out a little laugh, then lightly swats him on the arm. “You know what I mean. It’s… been a long time coming, but it’s finally time. You will make a wonderful King, Noctis, but it does not mean you are not allowed to feel nervous.”

“…I guess,” he says, like a passing thought; somewhere in the near distance, Jules has found a flower that he’s showing to his sister, and the two of them stand there whispering and conspiring like ephemeral gemstones in the early afternoon sun.

“I guess,” he repeats then, “I’d feel more nervous, without the trip. For two more weeks, I… I get to be just me, you know? …I don’t have to be King until I come back.”

“Ah, yes,” Luna nods, unable to stifle her smile, “The Crown Prince of Lucis and his Crownsguard, on the road trip to end all road trips. How did Gladiolus refer to it again? …Your ‘one last hurrah’.”

Noctis groans. “…You guys make it sound like a bachelor party, Luna,” he complains, and the giggle it elicits in Luna makes her sound far younger than her thirty-three years.

“For that, you’d have to _be_ a bachelor,” she teases him in response, and he cannot help but return her laughter with a wide smile.

“You know what’s weird about that?” he says, “…To think, that once upon a time you and I were supposed to––“

_(Not yet)_

There’s a sudden flash of pain that lodges itself on the side of his temple, searing through the right side of his skull; it’s gone almost as soon as it comes, but the abruptness of the sting still makes him wince.

“Noctis?” Luna asks, worry clouding her face, “Are you alright?”

He shakes his head. Once, then twice. Not in disagreement, but to ground himself back to this moment, the gardens and Luna and the sound of the children laughing in the distance.

“Yeah, I’m…” he begins, then offers her a reassuring smile. “Sorry, just a migraine. I’m fine now.”

“Good,” Luna sighs, touches him on the arm. As she speaks, her voice is curious yet also a little confused, as much as she tries to conceal it from Noctis.

“What were you saying again? Once upon a time you and I were supposed to… what?”

For a moment Noctis just stands there, staring at her.

“I…” he begins, but after a moment’s hesitation, shakes his head again.

“…Ah, I don’t remember anymore.”

 

*

 

The migraine, fortunately, does not return for the rest of the night. 

Noctis contemplates telling Ignis about it, but ultimately decides against this; with his luck Ignis will only read too much into it, cancel the trip, and insist on surveying him for a few days back at the Citadel.

Noctis cannot risk this. He has to get out of Insomnia at least for a while before the ascension ceremony, or he might literally go insane.

Luckily, his father understands this. Everything has long since been settled for this trip, with nothing but clear skies and hundreds of miles between Noctis and his impending responsibilities. At breakfast, the two of them had gone over the last remaining formalities before Noctis could shrug off his role of a prince for two whole weeks. There’s nothing he has looked forward to as much in months.

Well, except for one thing.

The strange part about that is that he almost forgets, though, like a blind spot in the wake of his afternoon migraine; because when there’s knock on his chambers that evening, a quick rattle of knuckles that drags across the bedroom door, for a few precious seconds Noctis _doesn’t_ remember who he’s expecting –– and then he does.

Because the hand that pushes the doors open is not the assertiveness of Ignis, not even the confident swing from Gladio; instead, there’s a wave of energy that bursts into the room along with a man weighed down with twenty pounds of camera equipment, strands of golden hair swept across his forehead while others tousle out of a haphazard, small ponytail at the back of his neck.

“Geez, remind me to never fly Altissian Airlines again, okay? If I wanted to be delayed by three hours I could have just ridden a freaking chocobo back to Insomnia!”

There’s a loud _thud_ where his bags hit the floor, but the three and a half seconds between that and Prompto pushing his hair off his face are not enough for Noctis to construct an intelligible response. Instead, all he can do is–– stand there, somehow, as the sudden wave of remembrance hits him all at once: the month it’s been since the two of them last saw each other, the mornings he’s woken up in an unusually empty bed, the nights he’s only been able to fall asleep to the sound of Prompto’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey,” is all Noctis can say to that, now; it draws a slightly goofy smile out of Prompto, who only tilts his head and gives Noctis’ chest a playful shove.

“Hey yourself,” Prompto says, then adds a little softer, “…I’m home.”

And then his hands are in Noctis’ hair and his lips are on Noctis’ lips and there’s something so tightly wound in Noctis’ chest that he can almost hear it _snap_ the moment Prompto’s warmth collides with his body; the weight of it is familiar like it’s Noctis who finds himself home again, returned from an indefinite visit to a loneliness without name. It sends him staggering backwards by a good few steps, the sudden loss of balance leaving Prompto laughing against his lips.

“Sorry,” he breathes out, pulling back by an inch as his hands settle on Noctis’ shoulders. “I just–– didn’t want to wait any longer." 

“It’s––fine,” Noctis manages, almost bewildered that Prompto would think he’d ever find issue with _that_ , “But it’s also… I’ve got nothing lined up today. Specs cleared the entire day out because of you.”

“Because of me? Aw, man–– I’m so _touched_.” There’s that laughter again, trailing from the side of Noctis’ chin and back to his lips, “…But that sorry ass plane still robbed me of way too many hours. I need to see Luna and the kids before their bedtime, so I can give out everyone’s souvenirs. Plus, I gotta sort and upload my work photos _and_ go through all my equipment before tomorrow. Sooo…”

Noctis feels his breath hitching in his lungs for the brief pause it takes Prompto to lift him off the ground, sending both of them sprawling on the bed in an ungraceful heap of limbs and choked back laughter.

“So?” Noctis echoes, amusement evident in his voice; still, it does little to conceal the heaviness of his anticipation, one he knows must be mirrored in the shade of pink that crawls up Prompto’s neck.

When the response comes, the twinge of nerve is still right there in Prompto’s tone even after all these years. The difference, though, is that at twenty-nine it takes less time for him to brush it aside; and when his smile deepens into something much more wry and confident, it makes something in Noctis’ stomach leap.

“…So it means I’m gonna make this quick. But that doesn’t mean I won’t also make it _good_.”

The warmth of Prompto’s breath trickles down his skin, and the rest of the world ceases to matter.

 

*

 

He awakens to the sound of seagulls.

The sun glares down on him from a nearly cloudless sky, rays of the midday sun direct and unforgiving. For a moment the whole world feels as though it lingers, until the slam of Regalia’s door closing brings him out of his reverie.

“My good gentlemen and man-chocobo-hybrids,” Gladio’s cheerful voice booms out nearby, “May I present to you the first stop on the _Prince Charmless Tour_ : Galdin Quay.”

Letting out a grunt, Noctis fights himself off the backseat, the last remnants of his nap still clinging to him like a dreamy sigh.

There’s a haven not far from the beach, and a promising fishing spot even closer. Noctis holds out the impulse to summon his fishing rod at least until Ignis and Gladio finish setting up camp; meanwhile, he and Prompto make a point of hunting down some Rubyshears for dinner. It’s an effortless mix of casual warp-strikes and shells cracking under break-shots, and reminds Noctis of–– something, that he cannot quite put his finger on.

It’s a good day, though. He catches a few Trevallies and a Black Barrelfish, and Prompto spends a good two hours napping with his head on Noctis’ lap until the jolt of a far larger fish gulping down the lure shocks Prompto out of his sleep and propels him off the side of the pier.

Later, when Gladio’s bellows of laughter finally die down and Ignis spreads Prompto’s clothes to dry on nearby rocks, Prompto wades into the shallow water and pulls Noctis in by the ankle. It scares away all the fish, which Noctis is kind of sorry for, but also gives him an excuse to dunk a shirtless Prompto, which he’s kind of not; he almost swallows a mouthful of salt when they kiss underwater, because the sky is so clear and blue that for a moment Noctis cannot tell which side is up and which is down.

The seafood risotto Ignis prepares that night is nothing short of delicious. When the sky bleeds like a watercolour and fills the horizon with shades of red, yellow, and purple, Noctis finds himself leaning back on a canvas chair and wondering if he really gets to have two whole weeks of this: surrounded by his best friends and the wide, open world, it feels like there is nothing he cannot do.

It’s… all kinds of amazing, really. He doesn’t know why they took so long to do this.

…He doesn’t know why the thought of this makes his heart hurt, in that strange, aching kind of way that he’s grown acutely more aware of ever since the morning before their departure, but all he can do is to ride the pain through, close his eyes and breathe.

“Uuuhh,” comes Prompto’s dubious voice then, and when Noctis lifts his head, he finds Prompto next to Gladio and gesturing towards the tent. “Okay, correct me if I’m wrong, but is this thing really supposed to fit four people? Unless an elbow in the sternum is precisely the kind of group bonding you’re after, which I mean, cool, but I also think it’d be awkward to wake up accidentally spooning Iggy––”

“Shut up, Argentum,” Gladio just laughs Prompto off, arms folding across his chest. “To answer your question: no, it’s not; it’s a two person tent, because you’ve got another thing comin’, thinking either Iggy or me would even dream of sharing with you two after what happened at that Crownsguard training camp. And secondly…”

“ _Your_ tent is still in the trunk of the car,” Ignis finishes in Gladio’s stead, barely lifting his eyes off the book he’s reading while cradling a cup of tea in his other hand; it must be chamomile, Noctis thinks, to balance out all the Ebony Ignis chugged on the road down to Galdin Quay.

At Ignis’ words, Prompto’s face falls. “Aw, man? That’s gonna take ages to set up, and it’s almost dark!”

Again, Gladio simply guffaws, and slaps Prompto on the back so heartily that Prompto nearly loses his footing.

“How slow are you? Iggy booked you a hotel room for the first night. We all know,” Gladio draws in a breath, and Noctis can hear Ignis mutter ‘ _much to our chagrin’_ during the pause, “How handsy loverboy here gets whenever you come back from commission. Given that this one lasted for a _month_ , this is your chance to work that shit out of your systems before we head out. With all due respect, of course.”

“Of course,” Ignis echoes dryly, both of them ignoring the radiant shade of red it leaves Prompto; Noctis aims for a nonplussed look but he’s pretty sure it comes out like the scoff of a teenager instead.

He’s okay with that, though.

Okay with Gladio and Ignis making him feel like they’re sixteen-year-old brats again, skipping last period to play video games at Prompto’s house; or eighteen-year-old losers again, crying over last-minute cramming and falling asleep on top of potato chips; even the twenty-year-old idiots again, who wasted months upon months on pointless indecision and the fear of ruining a friendship over the inevitability of feelings that had probably existed since the two of them were fifteen years old.

He doesn’t know why he thinks of this, or why the memory makes his heart hurt again.

It’s okay too, though; it’s even more okay when Prompto’s fingers later snake around his wrist, and the soft sound of _well, it’s not like Gladio was technically lying_ touches the base of Noctis’ ear.

He stares up at the sky, and the stars have all come out to greet him.

 

*

 

Prompto quickly forgets the rest of his embarrassment when he sees the hotel room.

To be fair, it is a _really_ nice hotel room.

The only problem is… the second Noctis sets foot inside it, part of him feels like falling: through the floor, through the walls, through the ceiling above. His head is swimming, and it’s only when Prompto seizes his arm that the room stops spinning around him.

“H, hey, you okay?!”

Noctis blinks.

“I’m…” he begins, but closes his mouth when he realizes he doesn’t know what he wants to say.

There’s something rather cautious in Prompto’s eyes, along with something equally protective when he guides Noctis to sit down on the side of the bed. “You all there, buddy? That was, like, a zero to hundred recoil you did. You sure you didn’t get a sunstroke or anything earlier?”

Noctis shakes his head. He wishes he could express so much in words, but something about this hotel –of these rooms, the seaside air that wades through his lungs– feels like burning, like an itch underneath his skin.

“Prom, we… we haven’t been here before, have we?”

It’s clearly not the question Prompto expects.

A frown of confusion sets upon his features, and it briefly reminds Noctis of the look Luna cast him the day before. “No, we… I mean, we’ve been to Galdin Quay, sure, but I don’t think we’ve ever actually stayed over at the hotel if that’s what you’re saying. Well, sure, I can’t speak for that year I spent in Tenebrae and we weren’t really talking so who knows what kind of extravagant getaways you had with––“

“ _Prom_.”

“Alright, alright,” Prompto tries to laugh the nervous string of babbling, and Noctis almost feels bad for it; he knows what he’s asking doesn’t… make a whole lot of sense, but it makes even less sense trying to keep the thoughts to himself.

He cannot help it, though. It feels like… _something_ in him remembers, and with that the wave of sadness is impossible to keep at bay; like a phantom of a memory, one with no definite shape or form. The feeling is rather disconcerting, like the name of your homeroom teacher that’s long since slipped from your mind; or the layout of your favourite corner shop, right before they rearranged the shelves.

In the end, Prompto takes a long, deep breath. Then he takes a seat next to Noctis, holds out his hands, entwines their fingers together.

“…Shit,” he breathes out, an unexpected expletive for the otherwise sombre moment, “I knew I–– Look, Noct, I understand if you’re… You must still be pretty damn freaked out about inheriting the throne, huh…? It’d be weirder if you weren’t, I guess–– but…

He looks oddly pained, before he goes on. “…I shouldn’t have taken that commission. Not this close to your ascension, not… when you’ve had to spend the last month dealing with all this. Alone.”

“Prom––“ Noctis begins again, but Prompto only shakes his head.

“No, lemme–– let me say this one thing first, ok? You know it… means the world to me, this whole combined career of Crownsguard slash international photographer extraordinaire, and I–– I know it’s because you never wanted to me to get trapped in a life of servitude, like Iggy and Gladio. That I can at least have a… choice, y’know?”

He sighs, letting his eyes drop to the ground. “…But I chose wrong this time. I should have been here, Noct–– it doesn’t matter whether you’ve been coping with the pressure or not, I still should have been here.”

His guilt must be so all-encompassing that Prompto gives an actual start when Noctis’ arms wrap around his shoulders, nudging their foreheads together. Strangely enough, while the confession is not what Noctis had expected or really even needed to hear, it has nonetheless left him calmer, more grounded somehow; for that, it makes it easier to breathe.

“Idiot,” Noctis smiles, and it comes out like a low chuckle, “That’s not… I mean yeah, of course I wanted you to always have a choice, but that’s not what it was about. Prom, the whole point is not whether you ever want to go or not, it’s… it’s about whether you choose to come back.”

 _Whether I’m the one you want to come back to_ , he wants to add, but in the five years they were inseparable as teens, and the five years they’ve been together now, or even the five years they spent trailing on and off between love and friendship and complete disconnection – the words have become obsolete, in a way, because both of them already _know_.

It shows on Prompto’s face, of course; in the way he bites down on his lip, fighting back the emotional vulnerability Gladio always made fun of him for.

“You’re the idiot,” he still manages, a strangled sound from his throat, and then he’s smiling and they’re both laughing and it’s… alright, as alright as it can be.

“Besides,” Noctis adds, once the bubbles die down and breathing comes easier for both of them, “What matters is that you’re here now.”

A small, almost shy smile lights up Prompto’s eyes.

When his lips part in response, though, the words get caught in a sudden static that rings through Noctis’ ears like a distorted feed of electricity.

_(––your side)_

Outside the window, he cannot see the stars.

 

*

 

He awakens to the cries of chocobos, growing ever louder in the distance.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” comes an almost equally loud chanting by Noctis’ side, where Prompto’s entire body is two thirds out of a moving vehicle even before Ignis slows the engine down.

“Someone tell me how a man only months away from thirty can still get that excited over chocobos,” Gladio yawns and stretches out his arms, and Prompto shoots him a sharp glare.

“There’s no _age limit_ to being enthusiastic about something,” he snaps, and in his defence, Prompto’s right; he and Noctis still find themselves gaming well into the night, or reading comic books, or having marathons of superhero movies on the rare chance they actually have the time. It’s his youthful energy that balances out the plethora of responsibilities in Noctis’ life, and for that he has always been grateful.

Besides, Noctis is pretty confident that Gladio himself has never abandoned his love of tacky romance novels, so chances are he’s just messing with Prompto.

Those would be good chances to gamble over, considering the good-humoured grin Gladio tosses their way. “C’mon, Iris would beat me up if I actually meant that. Which reminds me, I promised to buy her another moogle toy, so you two better help me find one.”

“Chocobos over mogobos, dude!” Prompto just quips though, and practically leaps out of the car before Ignis can point out that one, mogobo is most certainly _not_ a word on this side of Eos, and two, if Prompto breaks a nose landing face first into chocobo manure, that’s on him to explain to the insurance company.

Later, Noctis is absent-mindedly feeding a large leaf of lettuce to a midnight-coloured chocobo when a strong hand touches his shoulder, and he glances over it to find Gladio.

“So, you holding up there, King-to-be? I heard… Prompto told me you had a small episode the other night.”

Gladio’s voice is very down-to-earth as always, but there’s an unmistakable precision to his words all the same. Noctis feels like groaning for a second because the last thing he wants is to make everyone _involved_ , but it’s… also kind of Gladio’s entire life mission to stay on top of these things.

“It’s… look, it’s no big deal,” he says, waving the lettuce in his hand as he tries to wave the subject off, and the head of the black chocobo circles in suit. “I think it’s just all the pressure. Now that Prom’s back, and there’s not much time before all of this gets _real_ , it’s… probably getting to me a bit. Which is why I need this vacation.”

“You sure?” Gladio lifts a single brow. “Before we left, Luna asked me to keep an eye on your migraines. It’s been years since your body’s been acting up, but you can never be too…”

Noctis sighs. “I know, I know. And it’s… cool. But it’s nothing–– just feeling a little out of it at times, y’know, like when we’d go through Prom’s pictures and suddenly there was Gen––“

_(No)_

Something soft nestles around his chest, like the remnant of frost on window panes in the winter, and he looks up to find Gladio staring.

“What?” Gladio only says, and Noctis… shakes his head, swallows, shakes it again.

“…I don’t… I don’t really remember anymore.”

 

*

 

He awakens to the sound of rain, pattering across the roof of the Regalia.

“Good afternoon, Your _Highness_ ,” Ignis comments calmly, eyes flickering in the rearview mirror before fixing back on the road. “We’re soon passing the Disc of Cauthess. If the weather was any better, we could go have a look at the impact site.”

“You think we might get caught in an earthquake?” Prompto asks, peering through his side of the rain-streaked window; in response, Gladio swats his hand in the air dismissively.

“Please. There haven’t been earthquakes at the disc in, what, over ten years? Whatever seismic activity made the area unstable before clearly has given up and gotten something better to do.”

Next to Gladio, Noctis leans his face closer to his own window. The glass is cool to the touch, and his breath heats up a momentary fog on the panel before evaporating with similar ease.

A thought comes to him, passing like the the fog on the glass, under his fingertips, in the clouded haze of his head.

“…Hey, Specs… Whatever happened to the Archaean there?”

“You mean Titan?” Prompto chimes in, craning his neck around from the front seat; to his left, Ignis’ eyes once more reach the rearview mirror, and meet Noctis’ own.

“Curious you should ask,” Ignis replies, “There are a number of theories, but among some of the most popular ones it is believed that…”

It is here that the pain hits Noctis square in the head again, a migraine twice as strong as the one he’s been plagued with for the past few days; as soon as his face contorts in a grimace, Ignis hits the brakes so hard they _screech_ , and steers over to the side of the road.

In a matter of seconds Noctis finds his cheeks cupped by a single gloved hand, a stare so piercing in Ignis’ eyes that Noctis knows he and Gladio must have been talking behind his back, too.

“I’m fine,” Noctis swallows, hating more than anything the look of worry that seeps through that stare, or the unmistakable trace of fear that tightens Prompto’s jaw. “We should… let’s just keep driving, okay?”

He doesn’t want to–– waste time on this, not when they’ve got so many places to see together, so many things they’ve still got left to _do_ ; if they do not make it to Lestallum before these two weeks are up, he doesn’t… he doesn’t know what _he’ll_ do.

Noctis isn’t sure why the thought fills him with so much anxiety, but it does.

Ignis must sense this, though, because his grip grows loose. After a minute or two of surveying Noctis’ pupils, the way his breath settles back into his lungs, Ignis must grow content that the migraine has passed and slowly returns to the driver’s seat.

“…Alright,” he murmurs, “But I am making a detour to pass more rest stops along the way. I have not looked over you for twenty-seven years only to watch your health deteriorate a week away from being crowned King.”

“…Sure, Specs,” Noctis says, and cannot help smiling at the twinge of fondness in Ignis’ tone; as much as those twenty-seven years must have aged his advisor like having kids of his own, there is not a better friend in the entire universe when it comes to Ignis Scientia.

As they settle back in the car, Noctis reaches over and squeezes Prompto’s hand assuredly. In the rearview mirror, he offers Ignis an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he says. “I think I missed your earlier explanation about Titan.”

Ignis eyes at him, unable to stifle his frown, but shifts his foot back on the gas pedal.

“…As I was saying,” Ignis sighs, “…The most popular theory about the disappearance of the Archaean, as well as the rest of the Astrals, is that…”

Noctis never hears the rest of that sentence, drowned out by the rushing of waves in his head.

 

*

 

“…Hey, Specs.”

“Yes, Your _Highness_?”

He’s not sure why he waits to talk until the sound of Gladio’s snoring comes faintly through the wall of the caravan; why he waits until Prompto’s head has long since lolled off Noctis’ shoulder in fitful sleep. Still, it’s a conversation he feels more comfortable having with Ignis when the others aren’t listening, even if it means speaking in hushed tones over plastic chairs on the side of the Cauthess Rest Area.

“I was just…” Noctis begins, unsure of the direction he’s headed with this. It would be a lot easier if he knew.

“I know it’s probably a real weird thing to ask, but… I’ve just been wondering, lately. Why did Luna stop being an Oracle?”

Ignis pauses. The book in his hands rests calmly in his lap, yet the fingers that stroke the cover seem uncharacteristically absent-minded.

“Hmm? Noct, you do realize… Lady Lunafreya is _still_ the Oracle.”

Noctis shakes his head. “I know, but…” searching for the right words, he has no choice but to continue. “What I mean is, Luna’s not–– she’s not _trapped_ by her duties anymore. She has _kids_. I wasn’t sure if that was something the Oracle was allowed to do.”

Ignis casts him a peculiar glance. “…You have been friends since you were eight years old, Noct,” he points out, “I am sure you know, better than anyone, what the circumstances of her obligation as the Oracle are.”

Noctis sighs.

“I thought I did,” he says, voice growing smaller all of a sudden, “But lately… I find myself not really having any answers. Like… I _remember_ when they were born. Iolanda and Jules both. I’ve been their godfather for what, eight and four years now? But I can’t even–– Ignis, who was their father?”

This time, Ignis positively _stares_ at Noctis, a good few seconds before his brow furrows.

“…Noct? Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Have the headaches come back?”

“Just answer me,” Noctis breathes out, feeling very exhausted all of a sudden, “I know it sounds weird but… just, answer me, please.”

The look Ignis gives him is definitely concerned, now, but he nods. “Of course. According to Lady Lunafreya, she––“

(And then the static pierces Noctis’ ears again, watching Ignis mouth words that he can still not hear, hear, _hear)_

“––and so she returned to Tenebrae, with the news that she and––“

(Only the crackling of embers, and the ringing in his head, like an echo chamber closing in on his mind)

“––which I suppose answers your question in a manner that’s rather long-winded, but hopefully also satisfactory. Was that all?”

Noctis swallows, and he cannot feel his hands in the dead of the night.

“Yeah,” he says, throat dry. “…That’s all.”

It’s not all.

It’s not even the beginning.

And then the nightmares start.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know me, you also know that what you see isn't always what you're going to get.
> 
> If you don't know me, hmu @ icecreambat at either tumblr or twitter or whatever, because I know basically no other prom x noct fans and kind of want to scream about them at times, so you might just make my day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read (and especially kudos'd and/or commented!) on the first chapter! Considering this is my first FFXV fic it really means a lot to me.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, or not, that's cool too. I still appreciate anyone reading!

 

The drive through Duscae takes longer than expected; they are forced to spend the night more often at rest stops, for Ignis’ insistence that they observe the Prince’s health.

Because of the headaches, and the nightmares that soon jolt him up at nights, almost every night.

Noctis wishes he knew the cause. He wishes, more than anything, that he could make it _stop_ – the piercing pain in his head, the sudden waves of static, the waves that feel like they wash him under. Even the softness of frost that wakes him up in the dead of morning, from the anxious dreams that he can never remember, yet still leave him desperately searching for the warmth of the man by his side.

Prompto’s this close to freaking out over it, and Noctis knows.

Prompto tries to hide it, of course; they both try to hide the dread that creeps in, more and more with each passing day. It’s easier to ignore on some more than others: easy to drown themselves in the thrill of hunting, the lazy hours of fishing, even the starlit nights spent at the havens while the smell of Ignis’ cooking makes everyone forget any evil exists in the world at all.

But Noctis knows. He can tell how undeniably _scared_ Prompto is, of whatever is happening to Noctis, because at nights there’s an urgency that clings to his every touch; a light tremble where there once was nothing but confidence and curiosity, like part of Prompto fears that if he so much as breathes the wrong thing, Noctis will somehow break.

This is not how it’s supposed to be.

It’s still–– not all like that, and a couple of days pass without headaches or nightmares or any dissociation at all. On those days, the sun returns to Prompto’s face, and his voice regains its playful tone. On other days, though… the playfulness is still there, surely, but in close to fifteen years Noctis has learnt to see through it, to hear when the banter and the teasing come from a place of glee, and when they’re merely covering up for it missing.

“…It’s weird,” Noctis murmurs one late evening, somewhere on the plains of Kelbass Grasslands from here to infinity, “The other night… I could have sworn I saw Carbuncle. I haven’t seen him in my dreams for over, what…? Six years now…?”

His fingers are drawing lazy patterns on the side of Prompto’s arm. This close to Lestallum, the days have grown hotter and the nights warmer, so Ignis has been more pliant on letting them camp outside for longer periods at a time. With the memory of tonight’s prime Garula rib still fresh in his mind, Noctis rather prefers it this way.

“Mhhm?” Prompto’s voice has the sound of someone distracted from their game, and Noctis feels the flat of his mobile phone landing on his stomach. “Did he finally come to save you from a bad dream? What was it about?”

“You still having facial hair.”

“H–– hey, shut up!!”

“No, for real though… I’m not sure. But Carbuncle, it… seemed like it was in a hurry. Couldn’t stay and chat.”

“Maybe it mistook you for your dad,” Prompto mutters, then pauses. “…Wait. You said six years, right? I thought… the last time you saw Carbuncle was in your teens.”

With his head nestled in the groove of Noctis’ shoulder, Prompto cannot see the smile that tugs on Noctis’ lips. “Yeah, well, that… during Tenebrae? I might have, y’know. Had some nightmares. About you never coming back.”

“ _What?_ ” It comes out part disbelieving, part amused. “Dude, I… You know I spent like. A year, ranting to Luna about you every day. I’m pretty sure Iolanda’s first real sentence was, _I want to be back in Insomnia_.”

“I know, but…” Noctis trails off, closing his eyes briefly. Somehow, if he thinks back on it, the memory is still so fresh and vivid in his mind: the tension in Prompto’s jaw, the strained way he’d let go of Noctis’ arm on that day in his study and said, _We’re not kids anymore, I can’t waste my whole life not knowing what you really want out of me_.

He’d never seen Prompto look as serious, as _hurt_ as he’d done that day, when Noctis had simply stood there and let him leave; but the truth was that they’d both been a disaster back then, just a convoluted mess of two people who had never really found the words or the courage to express what they felt.

Plus, there had been that whole issue with Prompto being in his Crownsguard, and him being _the Crown Prince_ , and…

A breath hitches in Noctis’ throat.

…How _had_ all of that gotten resolved, anyway?

This time, though, he knows better than to ask; knows not to risk the deafness and the silence and the burning of his lungs. Instead, he fastens an arm around Prompto’s shoulder, holds him there for a moment of silence, then asks this instead:

“…Hey, you ever feel like… you remember things that didn’t actually happen?”

Under his arm, Prompto shifts a little. “Huh?”

“I mean…” Noctis begins, and his head is swimming a little again, but it’s not enough to sway him off this. “…Sometimes, when we’re on the road… I feel like, there’s people I’ve _met_ before, but when I talk to them it’s like they’ve no idea who I am. Sure, besides the whole prince thing and all,” he ruffles Prompto’s hair with his other hand before the man can inch in some kind of wisecrack, “But like… that lady at the gas station for example, the one with silver hair, she… no, I must be imagining it. Mistaking them for someone else.”

“You’ve met a lot of people over the years,” Prompto points out, then scoots over to rest his upper half over Noctis’ chest so they’re almost on eye-level now. “It’s not so odd that you’d get some of them mixed up.”

“Maybe,” Noctis admits. He’s thought of this too, of course; thought of a lot of things over the last few days, whenever the strangest bout of déjà vu hits him in a place he could have sworn he’s never even visited before. Almost like…

“Almost like back in Galdin Quay?” As always, Prompto’s right there, following Noctis’ train of thought every step of the way. “Does it feel like that?”

Noctis nods. “Yeah, that’s… I know I’m probably not making much sense, but…”

He pauses, because the words that come next are like a hum from the very edge of his consciousness; words he has thought of, lately, unable to quite say them out loud without sounding crazy.

“It’s like I’m not always sure which parts of my memory I’m making up, and which… actually happened.”

Prompto goes silent.

His eyes flicker to the side, and for a moment Noctis regrets speaking out. The last thing he wants is to give more cause for worry, but when Prompto turns his head there’s spirit in his smile – a sudden determination to do whatever he can, to put distance between Noctis and the void of ambivalence he’s being pulled towards.

“I’m… not sure if this’ll work,” he says, not looking a day older than twenty all of a sudden, “But I think, maybe… if you’re ever unsure about what’s real and what isn’t, just imagine yourself at a time when you were, like, at your happiest. A really good memory. Something you _know_ is true.”

Noctis takes a breath.

“…Like the time I told you I loved you.”

It catches Prompto by surprise, and Noctis can tell by the way his brows lift and eyes widen like something out of a comic book. “Wa-huh??” is what leaves his mouth no less, an endearingly flustered reaction to Noctis’ unexpected frankness.

He remembers, though.

The day Prompto returned from Tenebrae, and found Noctis asleep in the hallway of his old apartment; the day Noctis had woken up to the half overwhelmed, half choked sound of Prompto’s voice and the touch of his hand; the day Prompto had asked _What are you even_ doing _here_ and all Noctis had been able to think, or feel, or say––

_(The day you closed your hand in his, and he never let go again)_

It must be real.

It _has to be real_ , because the whole Eos and Astrals be damned, it’s the one thing in his heart he knows is _true_ ; the way there’s nothing he wants to sense right now apart from the warmth on his chest, and the touch of the boy turned man turned the only thing in Noctis’ world that felt real even during the times everything else was falling apart.

“…Oh,” that same man mouths now, but the crimson around his freckles also seems like a proud colour against his skin, “Well, that’s… I mean, I was thinking more along the lines of, say, the time you beat Gladio at combat or Iggy made us the world’s biggest hamburger, but that–– that’s an okay one too, I guess…”

“You’re impossible,” Noctis mock-groans, and then he’s yanking Prompto by the waist and laughing into the kiss, the way they always do, the way they probably always will; but when Prompto’s fingers thread in Noctis’ hair and legs straddle his hips, there’s also something far less playful and far more suggestive to the depth of his voice:

“Besides,” he says, leaning over to land a couple of butterfly kisses on the side of Noctis’ neck, “On the off-chance you think you made _that_ day up in your head, especially with what happened after…”

His breath moves closer to Noctis’ ear, and comes out awfully husky around the same time as his hands slip underneath Noctis’ t-shirt:

“Let’s just say, you’d have to have a _very_ vivid imagination.”

It’s more than enough, to bury the unease of tonight.

It’s not enough to make him forget.

 

*

 

He awakens to the hiss of a steam engine.

“My good gentlemen and Noct Gars of all shapes and sizes, may I present to you the final stop on the _Prince Charmless Tour_ : Lestallum.”

They’re finally here.

The heat of the power plant hits Noctis square in the face as they climb out of the Regalia, and within minutes the back of his shirt is soaked through. Prompto’s got his hair pulled up again –it’s no longer than Noctis’ own at the back, but still plasters uncomfortably at the base– and even Gladio’s scanning the parking lot for some shade. Ignis, however, looks no worse for wear.

“Today’s schedule is,” he begins, a pair of sunglasses having mysteriously replaced his regular ones, “That there is no schedule. I am personally looking forward to sampling the local cuisine and purchasing some of the rarer spices at the marketplace, but you are under no obligation to follow.”

“Good,” Gladio stretches his arms out, and gives them all a hearty wave. “‘Cause there’s at least two and a half cold ones lovingly inscribed with my name, waiting to be cracked open at the nearest bar.”

“Don’t go crazy out there, big guy,” Prompto calls out after him, “Don’t wanna bail you out again if you get rowdy after someone tells you to stop hogging the jukebox with _The Rains of Accordo_!”

“That was _one time_ ,” Gladio’s voice cuts the air as his towering figure ascends towards the city, but there’s not a whole lot of defiance in it; Ignis just shakes his head and turns to Noctis.

“We are all staying at the Leville Hotel; the reservations are under my name. Feel free to check in at any time you like. I was hoping we could all have dinner together, but you two are obviously entitled to making your own plans also, should you feel obliged.”

“No, of course,” Noctis says, with a quick wave of his hand, “I mean, I’m cool with–– whatever you’ve got in mind. It’s everyone’s final night together before heading back, after all.”

Ignis nods. “Well, then… We shall regroup at a later time. Please enjoy yourselves, Your _Highness_.” He pauses, the hint of a smile when he adds: “Not long now, and I will have to learn how to say Your Majesty instead.”

“You’ll have to start calling me Master Argentum, too!” Prompto quips, and Ignis smoothes out the wrinkles on his gloves.

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves,” he says, “It would certainly sound odd making a lost child announcement with such a name, assuming you got lost at Insomnia’s biggest shopping centre again.”

“That was _one time_!” Prompto cries out after Ignis, but he soon disappears up the same path as Gladio. Noctis receives a shove on his shoulder for his unabashed laughter, but there’s not a whole lot of defiance in that gesture either.

Sure enough, Prompto’s pout transforms into a smile soon after; as he throws an arm around that same shoulder, his right one lifts a camera above them in the air.

“Okay, Noct, time for our one final ‘proof that Prince Noctis made it to Lestallum and not, in fact, a prison facility in Niflheim’ photo!” he grins, “Or as I like to call it, the ‘how the _hell_ do you look that good even after a four-hour nap in a moving car’ selfie!”

It’s funny, really, the kind of things that register in your muscle memory over time; like the way Prompto’s arm tenses, hand gripping around the camera, or the split second twitch it takes him, to move over the shutter button. For that reason, it’s more than enough time Noctis needs – to turn his head at the very last moment, so when Prompto’s finger hits the shutter, what immortalizes on film is not another boring rest stop photo.

“Dude,” Prompto breathes out afterwards, sheepish yet unable to stifle a smile, “I thought we agreed no kissing in pics, at least on the roll that’s gonna have to pass through royal security.”

At this, Noctis shrugs. He doesn’t know why, but the heat of Lestallum is making him feel… lighter, somehow, like the world outside this city is the furthest thing from his mind.

“By the time they get through it, the ascension ceremony is already over,” he says, “What are they gonna do, tell on the _King_?”

“So your first act of order will be a gross misuse of power,” Prompto retorts, his grin turning wry. “… _Nice_.”

The hand that pulls Noctis along and towards the city is light, too.

 

*

 

The headaches leave him alone, for the rest of their stay in Lestallum.

Noctis is relieved by this, because it _is_ their last night before being homebound, and they _do_ have a lot to do.

Like stalking the noodle truck, hoping that a lone cup falls out of the pile and into their hands (“Noct, I’m fairly sure you could just like, buy the entire truck if you were so starved for carbs…” “Didn’t you hear, Prom? The secret flavour is the element of surprise”).

Like sitting on the sidewalk, watching Prompto half-flirt with the power plant women as they pass (“Come on, I’ve totally still got it–– that one didn’t even flip me off right away!”).

Like going through the marketplace, pointing at all the herbs and spices they’ve never even heard of, let alone seen in their lives – all the while shadowing Ignis, who pretends not to know who they are. (“Oh, oh, I know. Let’s try Gladio next!”)

It’s… a good day.

So good, in fact, that when the azure sky gradually wanes into a muted purple, when the rays of the sun speckle the horizon with pink, there’s that–– tightness again, in Noctis’ chest, like he hopes he could stop the hands of time and keep living this day forever.

But time, well it’s a fickle thing; one moment it drags on with leaden shoes, and the other it rushes like the sharp breath of a Winter morning. And Noctis, he knows this too; knows the familiar weight of dread that settles in his stomach, as soon as Gladio tosses the scraps of his peanut sauce skewers on the plate and lets out a yawn.

“Listen, it’s an early rise back tomorrow,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You kids are free to go and paint the town red all you like, but I think me and Ig should hit the sack soon. Just so nobody crashes the Regalia on the road home.”

Cleaning out his glasses, Ignis nods. “We shall retreat back to the hotel, but you can request our presence at any time. Assuming there’s a _valid_ reason to rouse us from slumber,” he is calm to add staring directly at Prompto, who only glances around as though confused at who’s not-so-subtly being addressed.

“Nah, I think a high score in the second to last level of Justice Monsters XV was entirely valid,” Noctis reassures Prompto later, their stroll back towards the hotel taking a detour into the winding streets of Lestallum. “Specs is just bitter he never made it past level four.”

“See? This is why I love you. You know what _really_ matters in life, “ Prompto says, swaying their linked hands in tune of their steps, kicking out an empty can as they cross towards the plaza. “…I wonder if kings are allowed to play video games, though.”

Noctis groans. “Can we not do this right now? We’ve still got an entire drive back to Insomnia, it’d be cool if we could keep at least tonight a free-zone from being reminded of all the things in my life that are gonna change.”

“Geez, sorry,” Prompto winces in response, then gives Noctis’ arm an appeasing pat. “Touchy subject. I get it. I’ve just never seen your dad… you know, do things like that. Like play games. So I’m not entirely sure what the–– protocol? Is. For when someone turns into the ruler of Lucis, I mean. I didn’t grow up in the Citadel, so I don’t know…”

It’s a fair point, and Noctis sighs. “My dad’s… a very different person from me,” he says, pausing to lean his back against the wall. The hiss of the pipes sends some steam down the street, encasing it in a dreamy fog in the night that keeps slowly growing older.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure… that if he’d _wanted_ , he could have played any game on Eos. Like, gotten into the first beta of King’s Knight or something. But he’s never… I don’t know what he does for _fun_ , exactly, because for all I know it consists of a bottle of Scotch and five hour sessions of chess with Clarus––“

He glances up at Prompto, and they both burst out laughing as if on cue.

“So, the exact damn thing we do?” Prompto manages through his chuckles, “I mean, if you swap old man games for headshots and rpgs, and whiskey into something that burns a _little_ less going down, but other than that…”

Swallowing down a hiccup, he leans against the wall next to Noctis, fingers slipping around his wrist in a tender touch. When Prompto then nudges his head against Noctis’ shoulder, there is something altogether… calm, and reassuring in his words:

“…You’re gonna be fine, you know?”

He says this, without looking at Noctis directly; like he knows, deep down, that what Noctis needs in their final hours of freedom is not someone who guides him from ahead, but simply… stands by his side.

“…You’re gonna make an amazing King, Noct, and we’re all going to be there when you do.”

Noctis closes his eyes, and in that fragmented of time, he wants nothing more than for Prompto’s words to be real.

_Let it be real_

_Let this be real_

_Please_

 

*

 

He awakens to the sound of wind floating through the window.

He doesn’t remember opening it, but the air flows heavy into the room. It’s cooler at night than during the day, but still dances on his skin like a Summer’s kiss; for a moment the whole world lingers, and his breath comes out unusually shallow.

The hotel room is bathed in shadows, lights from the city swirling in patterns in the dark. Next to him, the sheets are draped around Prompto in some elaborate attempt to simultaneously curl in and out of them, blond hair tousled over the pillow and down his cheek. He sleeps with short, staccato breaths, far lighter than the deep sleep Noctis is always teased for; indeed, it’s far more usual for him to stir at night than Noctis.

Eyelashes resting heavy on his cheekbones, lips still flush and swollen from a few hours back, the man is every inch the embodiment of all the dreams Noctis had as a teen; the ones he never admitted to, yet always gnawed away at his psyche, until at eighteen they’d gotten so drunk on Prompto’s birthday that the night had ended with a messy make-out session in the hallway of Noctis’ old flat.

It hadn’t been the most romantic of first kisses, nor was it the way Noctis had planned any of this to go; perhaps, this is why it took him another six years to find his way to another hallway, to admit to the feelings he had tried so hard to put into words with those sloppy, inexperienced kisses the first time around.

There had been more of those, of course, in the years that followed: always caught in the trace of some undefinable moment, after school, after Crownsguard practice, after any excuse to trick themselves into thinking that _it doesn’t matter if none of this has a name_.

(Though it had mattered, and it did matter, so much that it had eventually all blown up in their face at training camp some time later, and then… well, the next day Prompto had left for Tenebrae, and nothing in the world had really mattered anymore.)

He doesn’t know why he thinks of this again.

He doesn’t know why he thinks of it now.

He doesn’t know why he just–– sits there, unable to stop staring at Prompto, like the moment he moves the scene somehow breaks and is lost forever.

_(Oh, but)_

_(You know)_

Noctis takes a deep breath, so deep it burns in his lungs going in. Then exhales. A few minutes pass like that, but he enjoys the feeling, as much as it stings; because it feels like _something_ , and something is better than nothing at all.

He knows Prompto wakes up the second he shifts his weight off the bed.

He does so anyway.

It’s why he doesn’t go far; there’s a balcony just outside the room, wide enough for Noctis to spread his arms across the rail. The metal is still warm from sitting in the sun all day, and the contrast makes the wind on his skin cool. He tries to remember this, to bury all of these different sensations in his memory, because he… has to try and remember.

Regardless of what happens tonight, he _needs_ to remember.

“…Noct? Is… everything ok?”

Sleep still clings to Prompto’s limbs as it does to his voice, but he’s always been quick to rise and adapt. He’s in the process of pulling on a light shirt as he enters the balcony, confusion evident on his face. “…You couldn’t sleep? That’s… a new one.”

“Hey,” is all Noctis can think of to say; Prompto stands up to join him against the rail, eyes sweeping across the view of the city, as it stands there lit with thousands of tiny lights.

Prompto lets out a low whistle. “Whoa. Not… not a bad view. Makes me wish my night time gear weren’t still packed in the car.”

 _We can come here again, some other time_ , Noctis almost says on reflex, but the words get caught in his throat. They burn as much as the air did going down, so to distract himself he reaches out for Prompto’s right wrist.

As he expects, the barcode is right there, etched into Prompto’s skin. It’s been years since Prompto has worn a wristband or any other coverup over it, and it once more reminds Noctis of what he has to do.

He doesn’t want to do it.

He just… can’t _not_ do it, either, and so the words tumble out before he can stall the inevitable any longer.

“Prom, when… when was it that you found out about your past?”

He’s met with a genuinely surprised look, blue eyes darker than usual yet definitely fully awake now. “Huh…?”

“You know,” Noctis goes on, and when he takes a step closer, he can feel the warmth of Prompto’s body even through the light cotton of his shirt; he tries to bury how that feels in his memory, too.

“Back when we first met, you didn’t know you were from Niflheim. You didn’t know you’d been born in a… you know.”

He finishes with a mild gesture, and Prompto turns his head away. It’s not so much out of shame, rather than simple confusion, though; Noctis knows, because Prompto’s brows knit together before he glances back.

“I’m not… sure, to be honest,” he replies with sheepish chuckle, “Over the years I just… figured it out, I guess? And since you guys said it didn’t matter, I haven’t… really thought about it much. How come?”

Noctis nods.

It’s the answer he was expecting, which is what also makes it worse.

“But you _are_ from Niflheim,” he goes on. “From a… military laboratory, created by the Empire no less. So haven’t you ever wondered why they haven’t tried attacking Lucis? Even Tenebrae, Altissia, everything–– everything’s at peace. Doesn’t that seem… strange to you, considering we’ve always been enemies with the Empire?”

Prompto frowns again, but seems more hesitant this time. “Noct, I… I guess, when you put it that way, it does sound… a little weird, yeah.”

Noctis lets his hand fall.

“…Noct?” Prompto asks, but all Noctis can do is try to breathe, breathe, _breathe_.

_(Because you know and you know and you know)_

_(One, two, three, four)_

_(It’s time for little princes to go back home)_

When Noctis moves again, he does so with an abrupt, almost harsh motion. His arms wrap around Prompto’s shoulders, yanking him so close that a stunned _hey_ leaves Prompto’s mouth; it’s a painful embrace, surely, but also everything Noctis can do to stop himself from falling apart before it’s too late.

“Prom––” he says, voice on the verge of breaking. Even though each word feels like a shard tearing out his throat, he has to say them while he still can.

“––You know when you told me, that if I’m ever unsure, I just–– I have to think of when I was at my happiest, right? To know what’s real, to know what’s–– true.”

“ _Noct_?”

The name is a muffled sound against his shoulder; he can almost feel Prompto’s confusion swiftly slipping into panic. With every passing second of Noctis’ urgency he must be growing acutely aware that something is very, very _wrong_ , and Noctis wishes he could tell him it’s alright but he can’t.

There’s just no time.

No time to explain, or to apologize for all the things Noctis knows Prompto deserves an apology for. No time to _give_ Prompto everything he deserves in this world, because the list would take longer to go through than there have been days on Eos.

“Prom, I–– I want to remember. How happy I was. How happy you all made me–– Ignis and Gladio and Luna and dad and Cor and Clarus and Iris and––“

He chokes here, because how can he _not_ , but he has to do this.

“You have to believe me,” he finishes, pulling back only just to catch Prompto’s eyes in a single, direct stare.

Sure enough, Prompto’s expression is a mask of fright, rendered speechless by Noctis’ words. Still, even his terror is not enough to make him any less beautiful in the glow of the night, pulsing around them for one last time.

“You have to believe me,” Noctis says again, but it comes out more of a whisper.

He doesn’t feel like crying anymore. There’s nothing left in him, after all; just the silent acceptance of what will come to pass as soon as he finally admits it aloud, the way he struggled for years to admit to the other big truth of his life.

“…Believe what?” Prompto finally manages, and he’s definitely swallowing down whatever tears Noctis cannot himself afford. Biting on his lip to keep it from trembling, it’s that raw emotion on Prompto’s face that always made it so hard for Noctis to be honest with his own.

He loosens his grip, pulls one arm back from Prompto’s shoulder. Lifts his hand and wipes at the damp skin under Prompto’s left eye. Prompto must sense his sudden calmness, because he simply swallows at the touch, resigned to not understanding what’s going on.

“…Even if I had to go somewhere,” Noctis says, struggling to piece the blur of his head into words, “Somewhere far away, to a place where you couldn’t follow… Whether it’s me, or some memory of me, I’m always here.”

A pause, and the tiniest of smiles tugs on his lip, with the bittersweet that always followed his honesty.

“So whether it’s you, or some other version of you… it’s real. The way I feel about you, it’s always real. That… never changes.”

“What are you saying…?” Prompto breathes out like something strangled, but it’s alright now; Noctis can already feel the gears of acceptance churning into motion around him, the familiar hum of electric feed joining the song of the waves.

Deep in his chest he feels the touch of frost, the tremors of the earth, until finally, the smouldering glow that bursts forth from underneath – and at long last, the same voice that has been whispering to him all along.

He leans over, and though it’s little more than a ghost of a kiss, he needs to remember it.

“What I’m saying is––” Noctis begins, and instinctively closes his eyes.

(Needs to remember the way _Prompto_ felt _,_ because it’s all he might ever have, or remember again)

“–– _That I don’t think any of this really happened_ ”

 

*

 

He awakens to the sound of something shattering.

Then, silence.

He opens his eyes, and all at once he remembers:

(that his father, he still died at the capital)

(that Luna, she died in Altissia as well)

(that Ignis, his eyes were claimed by the darkness)

(that for ten years, the world has been a barren hell)

He looks up at the Crystal, and all at once he knows:

that on this morning, Noctis Lucis Caelum is twenty-nine years, eleven months and twenty-eight days old; and in two days he will walk back home to the Citadel and right into his death.

Something inside the Crystal looks right back at him, and smiles.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on the same channel: Hammerhead.
> 
> \-----
> 
> And it is here that we shift back to sort-of-kind-of canonical territory; I've taken some liberties on details in the next two chapters, though, to use and modify them as I feel best suits the story. But oh, home do we go. In the words of great sage called Drake, _nothing was the same_.
> 
> (again, you can catch me on tumblr/twitter @ icecreambat because i am always here to yell about virtual fishing to anyone who will listen. or you can yell at me for being a pos, either way is fine!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know I originally envisioned this story as a one-shot that would have ended where chapter 2 ends? But then, that would have been too easy. Also, I'm not that much of a sadist.
> 
> That being said, it's here that the emotional rollercoaster really begins.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who's reading; it means a lot.
> 
> (also: there's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it gladio/ignis in this chapter, but if that's not your thing you can just pretend the implication is not there.)

 

truth is i have seen it come  
seen the ghost of the sun  
can’t have it undone 

\- _ ghost of the sun _, katatonia

 

 

 _I can’t do this_ , Noctis thinks, the moment Talcott staggers backwards and slams into his truck.

It’s only a brief brush of their hands: a tug of his arm after Noctis stumbles with an exhausted step. Still, this is more than enough contact for the surge of electricity to jolt the boy (no, man now), prompting Talcott’s grip to come loose in an instant.

Backing into his truck, what initially blindsides Talcott is the sudden pain. But what leaves him completely disoriented for a good ten minutes afterwards is something different, and Noctis can only stand there on the side of the road and wait while the worst of it passes, because he knows.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

After all, Talcott is hardly the first person this has happened with. He may not have prepared for it coming to on the Angelgard island, but the blood-curdling scream he pulled out of Libertus is one Noctis may never forget. From there on out, he’d avoided touching anyone, even Gentiana; whether she had it figured out anyway, she never said a word.

No mere pain could have ever left Libertus as freaked out as he was, though. The minutes he’d spent staring out into the ocean made the battle-seasoned man look as shaken as if he’d seen a ghost, and the truth is that he probably had.

Hundreds of ghosts, all rushing back in a single second of a life once lived, and the life that will never come to pass.

Because when the memories once more jump out of Noctis and into Talcott’s skin, Noctis sees it again: the version of Talcott from his dream, honed to intricate, detailed perfection by the ten years spent inside the Crystal. Watches, as if played in high definition, a flash of the other Talcott still surrounded by everyone he loves.

It’s well enough to twist a look of pure pain on this Talcott’s face, like something inside him is slowly coming undone; but then, for someone who has not seen the break of dawn in ten years, even the sheer memory of Summer could reduce a grown man in tears.

Talcott does not cry, though.

It takes him a while to reorient, certainly, but when he looks at Noctis anew there are no questions on his lips. It twists away at Noctis’ heart, knowing how fast Talcott must have grown up in a world without sun; fast enough to know sometimes the questions only bring more pain, and so they travel in silence.

 _I can’t do this_ , Noctis thinks again, once the silhouette of Hammerhead is drawn in the distance.

Cannot, yet can’t not.

 _It was you who wanted to remember_ , the voice at the back of his mind whispers.

And now he’s almost home.

 

*

 

He never thought it would be easy, but Noctis is not prepared for just how hard it really is.

There’s not enough time in the world to prepare him for this, though. Not the ten years of darkness, or the twenty it seems to have drained out of the best men in the whole world.

The mark of the Ring of the Lucii still adorns the side of Ignis’ face, but it’s curious how similar he looks compared to the man from Noctis’ dream. For someone whose sight never returned, he is still the first one on his feet when Noctis pushes through his side of the truck; the first to become alarmed by his presence, like something in the universe has shifted and then realigned.

Deep down, Noctis is relieved. If he can–– just keep his eyes on Ignis, maybe he can do this. If his face never betrays his emotions, maybe he can get through this one last night.

Maybe, maybe; his name comes in an echo of three familiar voices, and it’s already so much he can do not to break down at the sound.

Sure enough, it’s once more Ignis who first senses the deliberate distance Noctis leaves between them. He comes to an abrupt halt, and a split second nod over his shoulder makes Gladio’s arm shoot out, grabbing at the person about to dash past; a _hey, what are you––_ calls out with surprise and frustration, but only Ignis is allowed to step up to Noctis.

A brow lifts in question, and Noctis knows he owes them an explanation.

Only… there are a hundred of more important words that need sharing first, like the prophecy, or this whole senseless yet altogether so predictable string of fate of his that will soon pull Noctis along; but ever since Angelgard it’s been a struggle to separate the two overlapping realities from one another, and the weight of all this knowledge makes Noctis’ head swim.

It’s not enough time.

There’s never enough time.

But it’s what he has to do, nonetheless.

“Can we… could we set up camp together? …Like old times.”

Ten years might have passed, but Ignis is still Ignis; Noctis knows he would have never asked him needless questions before, and he is sure to not ask them now. So, the only response he receives is a nod, and the way Ignis’ shoulders relax with silent resignation.

And so he tells them about Bahamut; over campfire, over a dinner scraped together from something only Ignis knows how to transform into an edible meal. Tells them about the King of Kings, as much as the look on their faces shows that the three must already have known, deep down, that it was all bound to end in these words: that the day Noctis would return would be the day he would tell them goodbye.

With the recognition of Noctis’ unspoken wish for personal space, Gladio has settled their chairs close to one another. It’s a literal shield between Noctis and the restless energy around him, radiating from the man Noctis has yet to address face to face; each and every one of them _senses_ that there’s a reason for this distance, but it’s not until a frustrated voice cuts the air that it’s dragged out in the open.

“…So, that’s that then, huh? …Ten fucking years, and all we get is a front-row seat to Noct’s sacrifice while he sits there pretending we don’t exist?”

And Gladio, he actually _flinches_ at the voice; yanks his gaze back to Noctis, but by then it’s too late. Because the Prompto that pushes between their seats is not the kid left behind at Zegnautus Keep, but also a seasoned hunter, soldier, marksman, _guard_ – a man who has spent a third of his life fighting for a world that’s done its best to rob him of nearly everything he holds dear.

There’s just one problem, Noctis thinks, as Prompto’s eyes finally meet his in a tumble of frenzied focus.

He now holds the power to destroy the rest of it, and Prompto must never know a thing.

 

*

 

It is quite the understatement to say Prompto is livid.

A small war wages itself on his face, pained by not only the struggle of stomaching Noctis’ return, but also the news of his eventual fate. Still, the hurt in his blue eyes is _raw_ in ways Noctis should have been prepared for – after all, underneath the anger is a boy who spent years waiting for his best friend, one who now refuses to so much as hold his gaze.

“Why are you avoiding me? Did I contract the the freaking Starscourge without knowing it or something?!”

Noctis’ head is swimming, swimming, swimming again, but this time it’s not because of Bahamut’s voice.

Because the Prompto before him looks and sounds like a carbon copy of the man in his vision (save the scars, the weariness around his eyes, the questionable taste in facial hair that nobody was clearly around to talk Prompto out of), and yet the two of them… are not the same people; Noctis’ entire psyche is still reeling from two overlapping realities, and he lets out a choked sound three inches before Prompto’s hand lands on his shoulder.

In two seconds flat, Gladio’s arm is around Prompto, harshly yanking him back.

“––Are you kidding me?!”

Ignis draws in a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. It looks as though he’s quickly picturing the commotion in his head: as much as the other retainers have accepted Noctis’ peculiar reserve, Prompto’s… never been like that, was not born into royal obedience or to comply with Noctis’ whims.

“…Prompto,” Ignis breathes out, “Please calm down. It would certainly appear that there is a legitimate reason for Noct to keep his distance, although it is entirely up to him whether he wishes to share it.”

Ignis does not need to address this directly at Noctis for them to all know the ball is now in his court. But really, it’s not fair on Prompto, Ignis, _or_ Gladio to keep dancing around the truth, not if he wishes to deserve their trust and follow Noctis into a battle without definite return.

He takes a deep breath.

“…Being inside the Crystal, it…” he begins, unsure how to phrase everything, “…It did something to me. Anyone I touch now, they…  it hurts to come in direct contact. In many ways.”

Ignis’ brow draws into a frown at the implication of Noctis’ words.

“…In many ways?” he repeats softly, and Noctis stares at his feet.

“…There was this vision,” he admits, “Or maybe more of a dream, one that I lived in while I was inside the Crystal. The person I touch gets a glimpse of themselves in it, but what they see is… something that they’re probably better off not knowing.”

For a moment Ignis says nothing.

Then, he leans out of his seat. Lifts a single gloved hand, pulls at its fabric with the other.

“It might be easier to understand, should you simply show me anyway,” Ignis says, tone even, although a myriad of emotions must be at war inside him, too. He also has waited ten years for this moment; but after sharing so much of his life with Noctis, the mere thought of hurting Ignis breaks Noctis’ heart.

At his obvious reluctance, though, Ignis simply shakes his head.

“…It is hard for me to fulfil my duties unless I know exactly what we are dealing with, Your _Majesty_.”

The deliberateness of that title lodges something heavy in Noctis’ throat. He knows what he’s about to show Ignis is crueler than anything he’d wish upon his oldest friend, yet because of that very bond rejecting the request would be even crueler. And so; with a deep breath and a trembling hand, he places his palm against Ignis’ own.

Even having anticipated the pain, Ignis flinches in his tracks. It’s to his credit that he doesn’t yank his hand back, instead closing it around Noctis’ for some good five seconds. It’s Noctis who eventually breaks the contact, feeling the days and weeks, even months of dream-Ignis’ life flash in their minds: the life of solemn servitude, a large kitchen bathed in sunlight, and the silent, intimate wishes Ignis has likely never admitted to the one person they concern.

Noctis can guess as much, judging by the unusually long time it takes for Ignis to recompose himself afterwards. Not a single hair seems out of place on his head, but Ignis’ expression is… ruffled, in a way that reaches all the way to his soul.

It never shows in his voice, though, just the sharp breath he takes before nodding back at Noctis:

“…I… see.”

Retreating a few steps, Ignis takes his former seat. The crackle of campfire is the only sound to pierce the silence, even Prompto’s defiance rendered quiet by the unreadable look on his face. After a few more minutes pass, Gladio clears his throat to break the uneasy mood.

“…Well, I guess I’m next.”

He aims for a chuckle that comes out dry, and Noctis closes his eyes.

“I should probably warn you,” he murmurs, but Gladio offers out his hand without hesitation.

“Too late for that, kid,” he only counters with a smile that’s as mirthless as it is wry. “Ain’t a thing you can show me that can shock me anymore. It’s been a tough ten years since you’ve been gone.”

At this, Ignis turns his head away, and from that gesture alone Noctis understands that Gladio has no idea what’s about to hit him.

Still, all Noctis can do is show it: to place their palms together for one, two, three, four, five precious seconds until he pulls his hand away. Unsurprisingly, Gladio’s reaction differs little from Ignis, only with the added grunts and expletives that escape his lips like an involuntary curse at his former naïvety.

Because in those haphazard flashes (in the smell of moss and pinewood, the sunlight trickling through a canopy of leaves, in the afternoons spent tracing patterns on the back of a man lost in a world of recipes) he has also come to understand that it’s not the visions of pain and loss that hurt the most – but the promise of happiness he could have had, yet never got to share.

“…Well,” Gladio says, eventually finding his voice. “…Fuck me if I wasn’t completely wrong about needing that warning, huh?”

On instinct he glances over at Ignis. Before Gladio can say anything more, though, the sudden shift of Prompto’s body makes Ignis come right back to life.

“It–– it might be advisable for Prompto to remain where he is.”

The voice is firm, unwavering to a fault. At the sound of it Prompto freezes. “…Wait, what are you saying? That _I_ can’t touch Noct?”

Ignis’ head finally lifts, and when he addresses his words to Prompto, responsibility conceals whichever turmoil is still wrecking havoc inside his own heart.

“No, you can still–– you are free to _touch_ Noctis, surely, should you wish to do so. We only request you make sure there is no contact with his skin, because the effect of the Crystal might be…” he pauses, almost unnoticeably, “…Unfavourable.”

As hardened as his anger is capable of making Prompto look, his stunned face is now a throwback to the time before the endless night. His eyes flick back and forth between Ignis and Gladio until finally they land on Noctis; it’s obvious he feels blindsided by the resistance.

“But you… the two of _you_ touched him,” Prompto blurts out, and the bewilderment makes it come out nearly a whine. “You _saw_ something. So it’s–– painful, so what? I’ve almost been killed, what, dozens of times? I know I can take it!”

“The physical pain… ain’t really what the issue is about, kid.” Leaning a weary head against the back of his seat, there’s not a whole lot of fight left in Gladio; after his own experience with the Crystal’s dream, though, he knows exactly why Ignis is so opposed to this particular scenario.

“Just, believe me,” he adds in a near whisper, stealing a glance at Noctis. “It’s better if _you_ don’t go there. At all.”

Prompto’s response is a mix between a grunt and a groan. His expression shifts between the offended Prompto at thirty, who is being excluded against his will, and the insolent Prompto at sixteen, after his King’s Knight account was temporarily revoked; it probably shouldn’t come across as endearing as it is, but it’s also that very frustration that makes Prompto seem… like Prompto, again, and Noctis’ chest feels warm and pained all at once.

That is why he cannot do this to him, though.

Cannot show him what he’s showed Ignis and Gladio, even if it means taking his memories to the grave; because it’s not worth it to ruin what Prompto still has left of him, left of this, left of the life that somehow passed them all by when nobody was looking.

Any similarities that Gladio and Ignis might share with their dreamworld selves… well, that is ultimately theirs to confront and deal with. With Prompto, though–– ah, but there’s not a power left in this world that would make Noctis take on that gamble, to find out whether the dream he’s spent ten years trading for reality aligns with even a fragment of Prompto’s real feelings.

…After all, with the chance that it does not, there’s always the chance that it might do;

and for the life of him, Noctis cannot say which outcome would destroy the remaining hours of their friendship more.

He forgets too easily, though.

Forgets, that this Prompto–– has spent too long, watching the days drag on into an endless oblivion; has waited, month upon month, year upon year for the return of his best friend. So perhaps, the ultimate mistake Noctis makes is _not_ seeing it coming miles away – given the fifteen years he’s known Prompto, given the determination of a man who thinks they have nothing left to lose.

“You know what? Fuck all of this.”

And then the ground under Noctis is moving, stumbling out beneath him; and he realizes, almost with a sense of morbid curiosity, that it’s too late to stop the arm that yanks him to his feet, or the two warm and calloused palms that Prompto sets on both sides of his face.

 

*

 

It’s a gigantic mistake.

It’s bad enough when someone accidentally brushes at his fingers. Worse, yet, when he’d pressed an entire palm in Ignis and Gladio’s hand.

But Prompto, impulsive, naïve, _idiotic_ Prompto, has become provoked enough to ignore all personal space as though they really _are_ sixteen again – which Noctis would not mind so much, not if it didn’t also mean that the amount of contact shared between them blasts through Prompto with enough electricity to make him scream.

But as always, the worst is yet to come.

This time, Noctis has to bite down on his own lip not to cry out. He’s not prepared for the abrupt spike in intensity in the vision: how the memories surge out like a monstrous dam finally bursting at the seams, pulling him away in a tidal wave before he can stop Prompto, before he can yank back from the touch and stop them both from reliving the––

_––No_

Later, Ignis will tell him they only held contact for around two seconds; later, Noctis will realize the one who cried out wasn’t him. Yet it also could have been either one of them in that moment, as the cacophony of images became too much to handle, searing through them like a lightning out of a clear blue sky.

Still, it _is_ Prompto who pulls away first.

Prompto, who staggers backwards and flashes Noctis a single look filled with a hint of honest _disintegration_ before his face twists in agony.

“No,” he repeats, and something clatters on the ground where Prompto’s foot hits it, backing slowly away from Noctis.

“I won’t–– I can’t–– I’m––“

And then he’s running, a wild dash of the most primal need to escape from all this; away from Noctis, away from Ignis, away from even the angry cry that Gladio sends in his wake.

Within seconds Gladio is gone too, finally given the excuse to distract his heart with duty; every single one of them still has an oath to keep, and Noctis knows Gladio would rather crush Prompto with his own two hands than to watch him desert his King.

Ignis, on the other hand, stands up with less fervour and more confidence.

“…Give him time,” he murmurs, even though both of them know that time–– time is exactly what Noctis hasn’t got left.

As for Noctis, well, he simply stands there–– but he cannot blame Prompto, not really.

Wouldn’t blame him if he ran and never came back, really.

Because none of this is how it was supposed to go, and all of it is a gigantic, massive, _colossal_ mistake.

 

*

 

The night is endless and full of false promises, and he knows.

In the darkness, each shift and sound of Hammerhead becomes magnified, the fruits of Cindy’s labour dragging far into the evening as his retainers pool their resources and plan for their return to Insomnia. With his eyes closed, it’s not hard to picture the scene: the scribbles in Ignis’ notebook, the oil on Cindy’s forearms, even the crease of Gladio’s brow as he whets their weapons sharp enough to pierce a god.

He should be sleeping.

Ignis has told him as much, five times now.

It’s impossible, though. Not just because the loft is located right above the garage, but because his senses are still working on overdrive; still painfully aware of the conversation waged below his quarters, in hushes low enough to indicate Prompto still hasn’t returned.

This is why it catches him unguarded, perhaps: the light rattle on metal, and the door that creaks open.

Even the voice that trickles into the dark of the room, like one of the shadows dancing around the foot of Noctis’ bunk; but while the shadows are quick to scatter as soon as he shifts up, the voice remains.

“…Hey,” it says, and it comes out small, barely a whisper in the silence.

Noctis shifts again, and the lamp on the nightstand casts a pin of light all the way to Prompto’s hunched shoulders and averted eyes, until at long last they lift to meet Noctis’ own.

“…Hey yourself,” Noctis breathes out, and it earns him the tiniest of smiles.

It takes Prompto a few more moments to cross from the doorway to where Noctis is now sitting, legs thrown over the thin mattress and worn-out sheets. Yet when he finally does, there’s something resolved to Prompto’s step; like it takes him every bit of courage accumulated in the past thirty years to wrestle his nerves into submission, but he’s still determined to do this.

He stops, a cautious few feet away from the bed.

“I… is it okay if I…”

At this unfinished question, Noctis motions at the space by his side, and Prompto takes a seat while making sure to leave an awkwardly deliberate distance between their shoulders. It’s understandable: Noctis is still wearing a t-shirt that bares his forearms, and the tank top that stretches across Prompto’s back leaves his entire arm exposed from shoulder to wrist.

There’s no band on that wrist, Noctis thinks in passing, an absent-minded observation that is soon joined by how the past years have physically affected Prompto: from so up close, it would be impossible to miss the larger scars and contusions that disappear behind his shoulder blade, run down his upper arm, paint little patterns on his collarbone where something must have slammed against Prompto’s sternum with a blunt force.

Noctis tries to breathe, tries not to let his mind wander; tries to remind himself that he has no more tears left to shed, not for this world or the other.

“So, I… I owe you an apology, huh.”

Noctis lifts his head, but Prompto isn’t looking at him. A nostalgic shade of crimson clings to his ears, and Prompto instinctively brushes his hair away from his face. “…I shouldn’t have bolted like that. That… was pretty embarrassing what I did back there, I don’t… I don’t know what got into me.”

He pauses, then lets out a dry chuckle.

“…Wait, what am I saying? What’s the point of bullshitting if we both just went through the same thing?”

It’s unexpectedly honest for someone who spent the better half of their years together always instinctively holding back, always two steps ahead of losing face. It’s the Prompto Noctis remembers at twenty, but this Prompto is once again more similar to the man of his dream: the one who had grown comfortable enough in his skin to trust that Noctis would never look down on him over the truth.

It twists away at Noctis, because the more the two Promptos align, the harder it is to keep pretending like he––

(isn’t still screaming, somewhere deep down, over the life he was ripped out of without a warning)

(isn’t still hurting, coming to terms with all the people he’s lost, and the people he’ll soon lose again)

(isn’t still dying, to just reach out and cradle Prompto’s face in his hands and kiss him until they were both out of breath)

“…Y’know, I really thought this was it.”

Prompto’s voice snaps Noctis back, pulling him out of the waves before they threaten to swallow him whole.

As much as Prompto still avoids Noctis’ gaze, his tone is lighter now – painted with an almost self-sardonic brush, the words come out like a joke: “…At the moment we broke apart back there, I thought to myself: ‘ _Prompto Argentum, this is the moment you finally go insane’_.”

He lets out another bark of laughter, mirthless as it is also honest.

“No, not the time you got caved in for three days in a dungeon with Bussemands. Not when you watched those children get slaughtered by a group of Mindflayers. Not even when you realized you’d been praying for ten years for your best friend to be alive, only to be asked to lead him on a suicide mission when he got back.”

Prompto shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, lets out a long, deep breath.

“No, of course not–– that would have been too easy, right? Because clearly I’d been holding onto these feeble strips of sanity for the past ten years for a _much_ better moment.”

It’s not venomous, though, the tone that passes his lips; instead, Noctis can tell this is simply Prompto’s way of working through his anxiety, with sarcasm as his only weapon to combat the pain of actually admitting any of it aloud:

“Clearly,” Prompto repeats, softer now, like the path he’s treading down could shatter under the weight of his voice. “…The moment you finally lose your mind is when you realize you’ve spent ten years dying a little with each passing morning, while the person you kept waiting for spent their own years living your biggest fantasy.”

Noctis lets out the breath hitched in his lungs.

When he shifts, the bunk makes a _creak_ of a sound. Briefly, he hesitates before bumping his knee lightly against Prompto’s; through the fabric of his pants no direct contact passes between them, yet he can almost sense the heat of his memories rushing to the surface.

It finally wins him a direct look from Prompto, though, and that’s all that matters.

The eyes that lift up to meet his are still timid, yes, but only because what lies ahead from here on out is uncharted territory for them both. Prompto’s confession is and is not ambiguous, as though he’s leaving the door open just enough for Noctis to dismiss it: to brush aside as some sort of misunderstanding, should he wish to end tonight on a note of camaraderie, and walk out back to Insomnia with only brothers by his side.

…But the truth is and has always been that while Prompto might be his best friend, his guard and even a literal brother-in-arms, the two of them have never been _only_ _brothers_.

“…I, uh,” he begins, unsure how to start bridging the feelings between them in words, to express them without treading over boundaries that are nonetheless not yet his to cross. “…I was worried you might be… disgusted, with… what you saw.”

The side of Prompto’s mouth twists in a wry smile, and a twinge of pain tugs at Noctis’ chest at the familiarity of it.

“…Come on, now,” and it’s clear he interprets Noctis’ response for what it is meant to be: encouragement, if not simple hope, that they can walk confident across that bridge now, knowing it supports both of their weight.

“…I mean, yeah, there’s an entire spectrum of emotions I probably went through in those long as hell seconds,” Prompto continues, tendency to ramble already hanging off the edge of his intonation, “But you know, when you get front row seats to a dream about you and the guy you’ve been crazy about for, what? half your entire life? I can assure you that _disgust_ is not one of them.”

It’s another all-too-flippant half-confession, another detail Noctis could ignore at will.

He doesn’t.

Instead, it makes his stomach flip with something light; makes him brace his hands on the side of the bunk, pick up the pieces of his own honesty, and speak out:

“… _My_ dream.”

Through the theatrics of his mock-aloofness, Prompto’s head now tilts in honest confusion. “…Huh?”

“…Not _a_ dream, Prom. What the Crystal showed you was _my_ dream,” Noctis corrects him, suddenly finding it harder to meet Prompto’s gaze; for someone who has seemingly had ten years of practice confessing to the Prompto of his vision, in this very moment Noctis still feels nothing short of a teenager, lost in the impulse to hide his head in his hands and disappear.

His only solace is that it all leaves Prompto equally tongue-tied, because as much as they share with the people in the dream-world, the two of _them_ were never given the time to deal with being in love with your best friend; the time to make mistakes, then amends, before finally figuring it out together.

All they have is these wading hours in a world on the brink of ruin, and it… it just has to _be_ enough; even if Noctis knows it’s not, and never will be, as he watches the full meaning of his comment sink in and bury Prompto’s freckles in a faint flush.

But it’s okay, and it’s alright.

(Tonight it’s okay, and it… somehow, it will be alright.)

Outside the loft, the stars have all come out to meet them.

 

*

 

He’s thought about it a lot.

The Crystal, Bahamut, and the vision.

“…I know why the Crystal did it. Why it made me live in that dream world. You heard the prophecy, right…? Only the one worthy of being the King of Kings can rid the lands of Starscourge, and bring light back into the world.”

Prompto listens to him in silence.

Prompto’s knees are pulled up against his chest on the bed, arms wrapped around them, like they’re back at the Argentums’ house in Insomnia and about to enter the suspense part of a film on TV. His fingers fidget with the fabric of his pants, clearly itching to find somewhere better to land at; yet caution still clings to his every movement, as though worried that somehow _he_ might be the one to hurt Noctis.

Noctis pauses his explanation. Weighs his options, makes a choice.

Then he shuffles over a little and yanks Prompto’s knee.

The motion is enough to make the man tip over comically, landing against Noctis’ chest with a soft thud. It’s a little awkward to manoeuvre, to shift Prompto by the waist until they both lean against the wall with Prompto’s head and shoulders only touching Noctis’ shirt. There’s a moment where their arms accidentally brush and Prompto gets a half-second flashback to dream-Prompto’s 24th birthday in Tenebrae, but the jolt is also not as painful as Noctis feared.

When they are finally settled in semi-comfortably and Prompto’s hands come to rest on Noctis’ clothed thigh, Noctis takes a moment to simply listen to the sound of Prompto’s breathing, the familiar weight held against his chest like something he hadn’t dared hope he might ever feel again.

It’s… a little overwhelming, but he exhales, slowly, and the two realities once more realign.

“…To become the King of Kings,” he continues at last, “You need to be ready for the ultimate sacrifice. But that sacrifice isn’t… it’s not just about the King giving up his life. Anyone can walk to their death when they’ve got nothing left to lose, you know…? It takes a whole another sacrifice to give up actual happiness, just for the good of the mankind.”

He feels Prompto’s breath come to a halt.

“…So, the dream…?”

“…Must have been a test,” Noctis finishes for him, the nod of his chin touching the crown of Prompto’s head. A light charge passes between them, but no flashback comes. “I mean… I know it was. Because the Crystal, it–– it gave me everything I never even knew I’d wanted, then made me decide whether I was also strong enough to give it away.”

His fingers lift on instinct, about to stroke Prompto’s hair.

At the last second he lets his hand fall. “…Whether I was willing to let go of the world of my dreams, to try to save this one instead.”

The grip on his thigh tightens, if only because Prompto has no idea what else to ground himself with; his entire body gives a visible tremble, head lifting to bump back against Noctis’ jaw where Prompto tries to gauge the expression on Noctis’ face.

His voice sounds oddly hoarse.

“…So why did you?”

Noctis only smiles, though. It’s a sad smile, one loaded with wistfulness and fondness alike; a hand inches under Prompto’s arm and touches his hip with a soft, comforting nudge.

“Because it’s the world where I left you,” he says in a near-whisper, “You, and Specs, and Gladio–– everyone who kept waiting, for ten years, for the sun to one day rise again.”

This time when Prompto starts trembling, at first it doesn’t stop.

His arms come to wrap all the way around Noctis’ waist, head pressing tight against Noctis’ chest; but when he swallows down something heavy, Noctis feels Prompto’s breath grow ragged until suddenly there’s a bout of calmness in its wake.

“…I want you to show me.”

At first Noctis doesn’t understand.

When Prompto pushes back from his arms, however, there’s nothing but persistence on his face – like he’s swallowed down all his fear and anxiety, for the sake of what matters the most. Kneeling on the bed, the hands he lifts up still tremble slightly, but no doubt shows in his gaze.

“I want to see all of it,” he says. “The whole deal, the full ten years. I don’t care how much it hurts, I––“

It’s here that his voice breaks a little, but Prompto shakes his head, pushes on with newfound resolve.

“…I just don’t want you to have to remember it alone.”

And in that scene, something breaks, and reforms again;

(like a crack of thunder, or a tidal wave in the wake of an earthquake, or the freeze in the dead of Winter)

and while Noctis knows, _knows_ that this is possibly a huge (colossal) (gigantic) (massive) mistake too, he also knows that there is no power in the world that can make him deny this of Prompto.

It’s okay. It’s alright.

Or it might not be, but

_(Today you close your hand in his, and he never lets go again)_

“…Alright.”

Slowly, Noctis lifts his palms up to Prompto’s. They hover there a little in one last hesitation, until Prompto’s leans in and their fingers become intertwined; at the firm press of fingertips against the back of his hands, Noctis draws in a sharp breath, and waits for the first jolt of pain to hit.

It doesn’t.

Instead, everything in his head goes white.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on this channel: the junction between reality and dream.
> 
> (also, the reason for this story's rating. just so you know.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then we reach the final chapter.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented and/or kudos'd; it has meant very much to me. Writing has been... hard, for the past year, but this story came out so organically that it reminded me of how amazing it can still feel. That sounds corny but it's true - so, thank you for sharing that with me even through this little story.

 

 

The pain follows a split second later.

It’s–– really quite unlike anything he’s ever felt in his life; worse than any bone-breaking agony, skin-searing torment, soul-crushing ache that soars from somewhere at the very depth of his being. It’s like each and every fibre of him dismantles at the touch, but while he must have screamed at the sheer shock of the sensation, no sound comes out – the whole world plunges in silence as it washes over him in a cascade of emotion.

And then, it’s all _there_ :

Stretching on endlessly, the years folding over one another like a film strip of minutes and hours and days breaking into months before his eyes. And yet, somehow none of it goes out of sync in his mind, threading a clear path between the beginning and the very end, from the morning he heard Prompto’s voice at the school courtyard to the night they stood on a balcony in Lestallum.

It’s all there,

burying him in the details, the scent and the touch and the sound of every victory fanfare, every nestled pillow, every cup of coffee he’d pretended to like; every scraped school desk, every sweaty practice hall, every fountain pen spilled over Ignis’ carefully crafted documents.

_Hey, hey, Noct–– what did you answer in the third question? Crap, I didn’t even mention Mt. Ravatogh, you think I’ll get less points for–– Yeah, of course, Crow’s Nest in twenty mins, if we sneak fries back to Gladio I know he won’t tell Iggy!_

(every brush of wind against his face, every afternoon of swayed briefcase bags and the sound of sneakers against the pavement, every dreadful six thirty wake-up call and the ache of muscles during the first ten laps of the morning)

_Shit shit SHIT we’re late, okay, okay, we can remedy this, I know–– oh, OH, so I’ll tell Gladio you got stuck in the lift and I suddenly contracted a rare Gigantoad pox, and that’s–– wait, you’re right, maybe I should draw something on myself to really sell it, you wouldn’t happen to have like a set of markers in your Armiger huh_

(every wail of the city beneath him at night, every muffle of accidental naps and the warmth of throw blankets draped around his shoulders; every _kweh_ of an incoming chat message, every awkward text with emotes from his father, every distorted laughter down the line.)

_Hey, hey Noct… You think it’ll always be this way? The two of us, and–– everyone, just… You think we’ll always get to have this, always be together, always be the best of friends?_

He breathes in sharply, and for a moment the dream breaks.

Before him, Prompto’s fingers still grip his own, knuckles white like the contact is the only thing holding him by the seams. Prompto blinks, but when he looks up at Noctis, the expression on his face is as unreadable as his voice is hoarse:

“…More.”

And then it yanks him back, yanks them both headfirst into the months that followed: the years between adolescence and adulthood, where suddenly, every touch and averted gaze was loaded with so much _meaning_ ; the difficult stage between youth and experience, where he knew, knew, knew that _something inside me is changing and I don’t know what to do_ ––

 _I mean, I don’t even–– like her, really, it’s just… I thought it’d be fun? Dating? I dunno man, it’s no big deal–– you’re still my, you’ll always be my bestest buddy and we–– H, hey, stop giving me the silent treatment, I said I was sorry for not telling you, okay? Besides, what else… what do you even want me to_ do _?_

(and then the hours, lying alone in bed while the darkness was always there, there, _there_ and his thoughts, well, they would always wander; the hitched breaths, the stifled grunts, and the embarrassment that always clung to him later, trying to avoid the energetic blue eyes that met his the next day)

 _Ahh, well you know… It would have never lasted, she didn’t like chocobos and I don’t like, uh–– the colour green? I dunno man, just forget about it! We should totally talk about something else, like–– did you read the newest issue of Costlemark Hero yet? Haah, man you really do look_ way _more like a prince with that smile––_

(the soft haze of alcohol and the warmth in his bones, the lazy way his mind would still wander, now with the eager curiosity of his hands; the wince of his back hitting the wall, the swallow of his frenzied heart, the gasp past fumbling lips and scraped teeth and the taste of sickly sweet frosting on his tongue)

_Fuck, ah–– Noct, we–– this–– We probably–– Listen, we’re–– both shitfaced, and–– you’re gonna regret it–– in the morning, if we don’t stop––_

Their fingers break apart, the connection severed by a crack of thunder that passes from Noctis’ chest and right into Prompto’s heart.

The blast is strong enough to send Noctis fumbling backwards on the bunk, catching the side of it before he falls. Meanwhile, Prompto’s steadied himself back on his knees, chest rising and deflating in violent heaves, face awash with stupefied exhaustion.

“…Hey,” Noctis manages, choked. On instinct, he reaches out a hand towards Prompto, feeble as the gesture inevitably is. “Are you… are you okay?”

At first, Prompto says nothing. He lifts his own hand to his chest, like an attempt to steady his hysterically beating heart; when he lowers it, Prompto’s eyes linger on the hand for a brief pause before steadily confronting Noctis anew.

Something unreadable flashes across his face, and his fingers snake around Noctis’ extended hand.

The tug is strong enough to yank Noctis’ entire body forward again, but the second before their heads collide Prompto’s right hand braces the side of his face, bringing their lips together in a single, steadfast kiss.

There’s a high-pitched whistle that rings out at the back of Noctis’ mind, and with that the whole world breaks.

 

*

 

_“…So. Last night, well…”_

_“Look, Prom… We don’t have to make this weird, right? It’s just… we’re close, we were drunk, stuff like this happens. Right?”_

_“…Yeah. Stuff like this… happens.”_

_“Besides, Specs has been hounding me forever–– that it might, if things ever got out of hand. ‘Cos, you know, sometimes with teenagers, and hormones, and good friends––“_

_“Noct, I get it. It’s okay. You’re–– you’re right, it doesn’t have to be a big deal.”_

_“…I just don’t want it to get weird.”_

_“….”_

_“I mean, if things got weird then things might… change, and… you’re my–– shit, you know I’m not good with–– but you’re_ Prompto _, right? And I honestly… I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”_

 _“…You wouldn’t_ lose _me, Noct.”_

_“Huh?”_

_“….Never mind.”_

_“…Uh, Prom?”_

_“…Listen… Okay, so it’s like this: last night, maybe some stuff happened, maybe it was like an ultimate best bro initiation or something, I dunno. But it’s cool. It’s cool. Because the important thing is–– I’ve still got your back, y’know? I’ve always got your back.”_

_“…Thanks, Prom. You’re… you’re the best, you know?”_

_“…Yeah, I know. You’re… you’re the best too, Noct. Always… always will be.”_

 

*

 

_“YOU’RE THE FUCKING WORST, NOCT.”_

_“Shit–– Prom, you’re gonna–– everyone’s gonna wake up if you won’t––“_

_“What the hell do I look like to you? A walking joke? You’re the one who told me–– I specifically remember you saying, and I quote, ‘_ oh hey, Prom, we can’t keep messing around like this ‘cause we’re almost twenty-four now and Iggy said there’s like, a window of marriage that’s about to start closing or whatever, and some serious rumours are already flying, so _––‘“_

_“Prom––“_

_“––And I don’t know what you expected me to take away from that, but making out with me again in the middle of freaking training camp IS NOT IT!”_

_“…Shiva almighty, what the everliving_ hell _did I just wake up to?”_

_“…I do believe we’ve somehow found ourselves in the midst of a lovers’ quarrel. Gladio, we had best locate ourselves a new tent.”_

_“Right after ya, Ig.”_

_“Prom, can you please just calm down for a freaking second––“_

_“No!! I’m done with doing this at your pace, okay?! Just because you are indeed the Crown Prince of fucking Lucis does NOT give you the right to treat people this way! It doesn’t give you the right to–– to–– to go back and forth with me like this, expecting me to just–– fold whenever you feel like it, okay?!”_

_“That’s not–– Shit, you_ know _it’s not like that––“_

 _“Do I?! Do I really?! Then what it_ is _it like?”_

_“I…”_

_“C’mon, tell me what it’s like, Noct. What is this? What am I? Besides some fucking lab rat experiment from Niflheim, apparently, that you’ve kept stringing along for years because there’s no-one else to fuck?!”_

_“PROM.”_

_“You know what? I’m–– I don’t even care anymore. I quit.”_

_“You can’t just––“_

_“––Quit the Crownsguard, huh? Well, just watch me. Impeach me. I’m done with you and the whole damn Lucis, it’s not like I ever belonged here in the first place, right?!”_

_“Prom, please… You gotta calm down, we can–– we can talk about this, if you just––”_

_“Yeah, because you were always so_ great _at talking, right? Look, Noct, we’ve done the dance long enough that I–– it’s never gonna go anywhere. I know you can’t be with me. You don’t even_ want _to be with me.”_

_“Don’t––“_

_“––And let’s face it, why would you? I’m nothing. All my life I’ve done nothing but–– followed you around like some kind of trapped idiot, and as long as I stay here, I’ll never be anything more.”_

 

*

 

_…Well, I know you’re probably not gonna listen to this voicemail any more than you’ll listen to the hundred and sixty five other ones I’ve left, but… I’m gonna say it anyway, for the hundred and sixty-sixth time:_

_You were never nothing, Prompto._

_You were everything, always;_

_and it was me who did nothing, and then it was too late._

 

*

 

The kiss breaks, but it does so with a rumble, like a live wire that passes between their lips.

Both of them gasp out for air. The shadows in the room shift, ever slightly, before settling back on their trembling shoulders; on the hand Prompto still has fastened around Noctis’ wrist, never breaking contact.

It’s… strange. It still hurts, but the pain also flows somewhere deeper – like somewhere in the flashbacks the worst has already passed, and the peak is beginning to numb down into something akin to a dull ache.

“I wouldn’t––“ comes the rasp of Prompto’s voice, then a gaze full of mortified apology. “…I would never do that, Noct. I wouldn’t say those things, I wouldn’t–– _leave_ _you_."

It doesn’t really surprise Noctis.

But while the Prompto before him cannot imagine life driving an immovable wedge between the two, it does not mean such a wedge cannot exist; after all, it was never about Prompto’s loyalty, or the strength of Noctis’ feelings, but about the way Noctis’ dream self took one of these things for granted, and refused to admit to the other.

It’s the very mask of fright on Prompto’s face that proves this to him, no less – leaves them both well aware that should he have lived through the experiences of dream-Prompto, their conclusions could have easily been the same.

“…It’s alright,” Noctis breathes out then, the static of electricity trickles across his skin like the scrape of tiny needles, a phantom tattoo. “All you did was call dream-me out on his bullshit, which he kind of deserved. But…”

He smiles, a tiny, private smile.

“…You saw it before, what happened next. You still came back.”

It makes Prompto flinch, like recognition and memory combined; a tiny smile curls on the side of his mouth. Now that each touch no longer leaves them on the brink of paralysis, Noctis seizes the moment to brush at the side of Prompto’s face, over the freckles there, like everything he’s been aching to ever since he stumbled out of Talcott’s truck.

A thought comes to him, and it hurts but he has to voice it, too.

“…I wish you could have gotten to know Luna. Like you did while staying in Tenebrae, in my dream… She was amazing for you. She would have been amazing for you. For… both of us.”

And it’s here that he cannot help the shudder of weakness, the deep-rooted sadness he had not allowed to think of for fear of breaking down: remembering Luna, and all the happiness she should have deserved but never received. The sheer unfairness of her fate is like an open wound on his side, but even so he cannot will the tears into life.

Sensing this, Prompto lifts his hand and sets it atop Noctis’ own, still resting on his cheek.

“…I still can, if you show me.”

…And really, that’s all it takes.

This time it’s Noctis, who leans out and catches Prompto’s mouth, who kisses him with more courage and the trace of a longing with no name; Prompto makes another sound against his lips, but it’s more of a sigh than a pained gasp.

Little by little, it gets easier to breathe.

 

*

 

Little by little, the vision becomes… slower, with the months etching together in a mosaic of days.

It wraps them in a cocoon of sunlight and the early mornings of Insomnia, wading past the tall windows of an apartment bathed in white and gold; _because when you become King you’ll be surrounded by the onyx of the Citadel, so you might as well soak up all the sunlight you can now_ , and he had resisted pointing out how it is the royal colour of black that actually absorbs warmth the most.

His royal darkness, absorbing the light of everything around him, only to reflect it back at the sun in his hands; in his arms, every night with the world waiting outside their bedroom, time ticking away with each cry of soft abandon.

He doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or glad that it is here that the edges of the dream begin to blur.

Flickering like a layer, the images gently merge with reality as the strip rolls over itself, and two of them are left at the junction of light and darkness: simultaneously sitting in that bedroom in Insomnia, and the loft room in Hammerhead. The air wavers like the moment before a warp-strike as he shifts his hand, touches Prompto’s hair, and no longer knows which version of him belongs in this moment.

_Shouldn’t it be considered treason? The Crown Prince having a faulty boiler?_

_Hey, you wanted to live with me in a place where you pay half the rent, better get used to hot water running out._

Noctis turns his head.

There’s only darkness around them, yet he could swear he hears the faintest rustle of sheets; a playful hum and the sound of sneakers lacing, music flowing through headphones somewhere close by.

It comes out like an echo in and outside of his head.

“…You hear that too, right?”

The air around them continues to waver, even in the breath of distance Prompto has put between them. It’s the strangest experience: the whole world not only feels as though it lingers, but it actually, physically _does._ Noctis realizes this with almost startling clarity, when he leans over ever so slightly and the shadows never follow.

So he tries something else; places, after the initial hesitation, his hands on Prompto’s bare shoulders and gently traces them all the way down to his wrists. The contrast of tenderness upon his weathered muscles draws a quick shudder, but Prompto’s expression reveals what Noctis has already guessed: for the first time in all of tonight, it doesn’t hurt.

Nothing hurts; not the silenced current between their skin, or the memories of a past never lived.

“…I think,” Noctis starts, more curious than perplexed, “…I think we just broke reality.”

Prompto blinks, then again. “…What? For serious?”

“For serious,” Noctis confirms, and something at the pit of his stomach grows like a bubble: a burst of stupefied laughter, one he finds himself succumbing to with little resistance.

And then they’re both laughing – shoulders trembling, foreheads pressing together as the hiccups cleanse the room. It’s a mirth that seems almost long forgotten, misplaced in a world of the eternal night; yet the sound of Prompto’s laughter somehow makes the past melt away, makes the night around them feel nothing but the early hours before another dawn spent on the road.

(…Makes everything feel like _them_ again, back when they were just two idiots and best friends and teammates secretly in love.)

Perhaps this is why, once the juvenile fit escapes their bodies and leaves them breathing close to one another, Prompto inhales deeply and speaks up with a hint of acuteness:

“…So, how long do you think it lasts?”

It’s not a surprising question. As a matter of fact, it’s the best possible question Noctis could ask himself.

“…I’m not sure. Whatever magic the Crystal imbued me with clearly wasn’t banking on someone being masochistic enough to try and pull it all out, so it probably just… glitched.”

“Which means it’ll probably reset soon.”

Noctis nods. “…Probably.”

At this, Prompto’s eyes flick somewhere off to the side, freckles rest a little darker on his skin. There’s a quick bite of his lip where he visibly bites down his nerves, because even the temporary chance to touch one another properly soon makes it impossible not to remember the _other_ visions they’ve been bombarded with in great detail, all night long.

“So…” Prompto begins, but it feels like a replay of something Noctis already knows.

He still echoes it. “…So?”

And sure enough, the tug of Prompto’s mouth, the breathy voice, it’s all–– everything Noctis already knows to expect, but the following words make his heart skip a beat anyway.

“…So _that_ means we’ve gotta make this quick.”

Both of them know there’s no need to finish that sentence.

 

*

 

The weirdest thing about life is how absurd it ultimately is.

There’s no coherent narrative, no signposts guiding you along the journey; instead, the only thing to prepare for is the unexpected. That being said, the one thing nobody _really_ expects to run face first into is the concept of having _two_ first times, let alone with the same person.

Because while his dream self may have given into his instincts back at eighteen, the real Noctis never acted on fantasies of similar nature; even with the countless moments of physical tension running from high school into early adulthood, somehow the right excuse to cross that line never came. The years had simply passed, and then Noctis had gotten engaged to Luna, and after that… well, something about Prompto had changed – maybe the guardedness of his touch, the occasional strain of his smiles, or the way he simply resigned to the fate he assumed life had in store for him, just as Noctis had resigned to his.

…But now, there’s _this_ ;

and, well, Noctis would be lying if he said he’s entirely sure what _this_ even _is_ , but it’s not something he cares to analyse much as soon as the moment a thin pillow hits his head, and the weight of Prompto’s body pins him down.

It’s all sorts of bizarre, not feeling nervous. In reality they have never done anything like this together, and yet–– every ounce of the man who leans in and captures his mouth in a frantic kiss is still something Noctis has ingrained into his goddamn _psyche_. Even the simple act of parting his lips at the nudge of teeth feels like coming home, because he’s spent ten long years, well, imagining it: the tiny noise Prompto makes at the back of his throat, the yield of his tongue, even the way Prompto’s thumb feels scraping along the side of his jaw.

Alright, so maybe some details are different –like the facial hair, or when Prompto mutters _okay, so_ this _might actually be the moment I lose my mind_ against his lips– but other than that, it’s almost bewildering how natural it feels. Effortless, like it’s not all a frenzied rush to seize some temporary respite; as much as Prompto’s reaction definitely reminds Noctis of this, less than a couple of minutes in where his arousal makes itself very evident against Noctis’ thigh.

“…Shut up,” comes the pre-emptive groan, Prompto’s face temporarily burying itself in Noctis’ neck. “I just had to sit through, like… a speedrun of more porn than I’ve ever watched in my life, and all of it starred you in HD. So cut a guy some slack, okay?”

Noctis manages to stifle a snort of laughter, rather not risking hypocrisy while only a touch away from being similarly compromised. Deliberately hooking his leg around Prompto’s ankle, then, the balance shifts and their hips realign with more friction; at the guttural sound that leaves Prompto, he mutters:

“…Hey, at least _you_ didn’t accidentally showcase your every intimate fantasy to the person you’ve been crushing on since sixteen.”

Prompto audibly swallows, but comes back to life with a twitch of his hands as they settle over the skin of Noctis’ pelvic bone. “Sixteen, huh? …I wonder what did it, the experimental hairstyles or being thrown across the dojo by Gladio?”

“…You asleep and drooling on a Cactuar plush during Winter Festival, actually.”

Prompto certainly doesn’t stifle his own snort, pushing back up to stare at Noctis with eyes narrowed in mock betrayal. “…Son of a bitch. And here I wasted all that time working out, trying to get you to notice.”

“Trust me,” Noctis says, a funny kind of invitation trailing from his voice and all the way to his fingertips, “I noticed.”

It’s an invitation that Prompto wastes no time taking, of course, closing the distance in an open, deep kiss; and it’s here that reality begins to override fantasy, no longer simply a throwback to something Noctis may have once dreamed up. Because whether or not the Prompto of his vision was ever more than a carefully constructed figment of Noctis’ imagination, _this_ Prompto is real as he is unpredictable, kissing him with nearly fifteen years’ worth ofpent up desire.

Of course, that’s not to say the odds in favour of fiction and reality overlapping are not also worth taking. Namely, there’s a particular place right behind Prompto’s ear and down the side of his neck, one Noctis makes a point of reaching out to bite the second they pause for breath; sure enough, something high-pitched strains Prompto’s vocal cords, his whole body tensing against Noctis while his other hand fists in Noctis’ shirt.

“That’s–– unfair,” Prompto manages like a whine, “You’ve–– had more practice at this. I feel attacked.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Noctis, only half-successful in hiding the wryness of his smile. “Technically I’m still a virgin.”

It’s the worst joke anyone could _possibly_ make at this moment, and there’s nothing Prompto can humanly do to stifle his spurt of laughter. Digging one elbow into the mattress for balance, the shift of his upper body drives more pressure on the angle of their hips, and it’s Noctis’ turn to draw in his breath.

It’s with a playful kind of challenge in his eyes that Prompto leans closer, then, and murmurs:

“…You know what? Dream-Prompto was right. You _are_ the fucking worst.”

And Noctis, well, he cannot help laughing at that either, even if it’s soon muffled by another decisive kiss; because it feels _good_ to laugh, feels _right_ to close his eyes and just let his hands guide themselves under Prompto’s top and onwards above his head. It’s only when he glances up at Prompto again that the reality gives him a stark reminder: the contusion around Prompto’s sternum loops all the way down his left ribcage, where it connects with an older, large scar.

The sound Noctis makes is not human in any definition of the word, but before he can say anything further, Prompto’s hands close over his, pressing them against Noctis’ chest.

“It doesn’t matter,” is all he says. “…I made it back every time, didn’t I…? I mean, I had to, so I could be here if… _when_ you came home.”

…Prompto’s wrong.

It’s not Noctis who’s unfair here, but him; because there’s nothing Noctis wants in this world like the chance to kiss away each and every bruise and contusion, each scar that an elixir didn’t make it in time to heal. But instead of letting him do this, Prompto simply pushes past the subject, and then his legs are straddled around Noctis’ waist, thumbs hooked on the hem of Noctis’ shirt, yanking both of them upright to shield his damaged body with Noctis’ own.

Noctis knows better than to argue, though. Even if it does matter, more than he can ever begin putting into words, the only thing he can do to erase the past is to replace it with the _now_. There’s so much more he wishes he could do to engrave every inch of that body in his _actual_ memory, but time… is not really on their side; and so, he drowns out the anxiety in another graceless kiss, slides a hand underneath Prompto’s waistband and buries his fingers in the dip of Prompto’s pelvis so hard it makes him gasp.

It gets… a little blurry, from there on out.

It gets a little messy, like the switch that flicks in both of their heads once the initial _want_ turns into a fundamental _need_ ; when the wet heat of tongues mixes with the pooling heat of their bodies, slow and deliberate strokes descending into a chaos of frenzied jerks; when the sighs turn into moans and their breath comes out shredded in ribbons, and the only thing that’s left making sense in Noctis’ mind are the sounds that pass Prompto’s lips like a blasphemous prayer.

As time wastes away into nothing in the recesses of the room, Noctis is vaguely aware of the gears that slowly crackle and grind back into motion. His heart, though, is suspended in his throat, in his stomach, in the winding waves of pleasure all at the touch of Prompto’s hand; for all he cares the two realities can go fuck themselves, because there’s room in his world only for the sound of his name and the glazed out bliss on Prompto’s face, before that same world explodes like an overcharged vial of Thundaga.

In words less lofty, the shadows yank back as he yanks back his head, and comes all over Prompto’s hand with a violent shudder. Not that he has much time to register this before the man in his lap follows suit, biting back a cry into the skin of Noctis’ shoulder so hard his teeth must leave a mark.

Noctis wouldn’t know, though. He doesn’t–– know anything, for a good while after, as the world swims back into focus. The room falls into silence save for the ragged breaths and the pounding of Prompto’s heart, one Noctis is pretty sure can be heard even through the walls.

Once it falls in sync with Noctis’ heartbeat, the sound comes as the tick of a metronome:

Back and forth, back and forth, until time finally realigns.

 

*

 

It’s not long before he senses it again: the faint crackle of electricity on his fingertips, coming alive like a slowly resetting feed.

“…Prom,” he murmurs, giving Prompto a light nudge where a head of blond hair still lulls dazed out on his shoulder. “…Hey, wake up, it’s back.”

The space between them is, honestly, a right mess, and it’s made hardly better by the awkward attempt to clean up; it’s certainly made no easier by Prompto not leaving a whole lot of room to work with, instead clinging closer when Noctis attempts to lean away.

“…Did you hear me? I’m about to Shock Drop you in a few, so you’ve gotta… let go.”

“Nhm,” comes the defiant response, followed by a twitch at the current already setting between their bodies. “…What if I don’t wanna.”

It’s no place for laughter, but everything about their situation is so absurd that it’s hard not to chuckle; hard not to place a kiss, then two, on the side of Prompto’s neck in sad persuasion. “…I don’t want to hurt you, though.”

The plea is feeble if not ironic considering everything that’s happened tonight, but it still makes Prompto turn his head. Pushing back with considerable effort, he returns Noctis’ concern with a small, yet awfully stubborn smile.

“…Fine. But I’m not leaving your side.”

And Noctis’, well, he’s weary and tired in every imaginable way known to man; saying no to Prompto would be hard enough at the peak of his spirit, and right now he is everything but. This is the excuse he gives himself, anyway, for disentangling their bodies and pulling out the blanket, wrapping it around Prompto’s head and shoulders. “There. Now you’re the witch of Malmalam Thicket.”

Prompto lets out another snort, shrugging the blanket down to his shoulders. Then he leans their shoulders together, and both of them can sense the heat of Noctis’ skin already growing warmer.

The magic of the Crystal begins to work its way back in reverse, and the two of them sit there in silence now that the reality of their situation has kicked back in. With his knees pulled back up against his chest and huddled in a thin blanket, Prompto looks… younger, again, than a man of thirty should; the past few hours (or days? Noctis can’t even tell anymore) wouldn’t be easy for anyone to process, and yet the look on his face is not that of unease, and it’s not one of regret.

Instead, there’s only a mask of melancholia, followed by a wistful voice.

“…You think that could have been us?” Prompto says, and something heartbreakingly hopeful sets in his smile. “You know… if I’d been more like him, more like the Prompto in your dream.”

At first Noctis does not understand.

When he does, though, something sharp hits him right in the gut; because _this_ is the real reason he never should have subjected Prompto to any of this, after all those years of watching him struggle with insecurities hidden behind a smile. After all those fears of worthlessness and _not good enough_ ’s, what _right_ has Noctis had to pull all that back to the surface – to show Prompto a life that the real him was never at liberty to have?

And Noctis won’t–– he absolutely can’t––

“––Prom, _no.”_

Prompto almost jumps at the roughness of Noctis’ grip, at the abruptness of his hands on Prompto’s shoulders whirling them face to face. But there’s an anger inside Noctis that surges stronger than even the Ring of the goddamn Lucii, a vehement refusal to let–– _this_ misunderstanding continue for another second longer, just because Noctis was always too weak to tell Prompto the truth.

He tries to breathe steady, tries to breathe even. Waits for the urgency to subside.

But it doesn’t.

“Don’t you realize?! What you saw wasn’t–– what I _wish_ you were. It was how I’ve _always_ _seen you_.”

And then he’s sixteen again, and standing before a boy with wayward hair and a laughter like bells, who’s somehow made a home of his heart when Noctis wasn’t looking; eighteen again, and sleeping next to a boy with an ocean in his eyes, whose touch leaves a glimmer every time they brush hands; twenty again, and kneeling before a man with the courage of a hundred fires, whose silent yet hopeful _Did you worry about me at all, Noct…?_ leaves something inside him breathless and broken.

(And how he could never tell that boy, then man, the words he deserved to hear the most;

because the one who felt unworthy of that love, was really…)

“…You have to believe me,” Noctis breathes, an unintentional echo of a moment Prompto never saw. Because the two of them never made it all the way to the end of the reel, the last few frames of the film only burned into Noctis’ memory; but he needs Prompto to understand this, even if it means becoming their only chance at goodbye.

“…What are you saying?”

Prompto’s eyes are wide with stunned awe, but there’s no fear in his voice.

No flinch of his hand when Noctis lets out a deep exhale, and leans a little closer; because in this world doubt is a worthless currency, and Noctis closes his eyes.

Takes the plunge of honesty, one last time.

And so he places their foreheads together and literally _wills_ the magic to hold back, so hard that the newly-adjusted realities distort with an audible _crack_ , and the sounds of Lestallum at night flood right back into the room:

 

_Whether it’s me, or some memory of me, I’m always here._

_Whether it’s you, or some other version of you, it’s real._

_The way I feel about you, it’s always real._

_That… never changes._

 

*

 

He awakens to the sound of silence.

The air is thick with the fires of the city, grey light hanging heavy with ash and decay. For a moment the whole world feels as though it lingers, and he draws in a breath; it comes out unusually shallow.

He coughs, and it comes with a trickle of blood.

It doesn’t hurt, though. A softness holds the pain away, the touch of hands he remembers from childhood. The thought is passing yet makes him smile, the memory of Luna’s face a vision of peace; the sound of her voice a melody of comfort, beckoning at him to close his eyes, and to finally earn his rest.

It’s alright, though.

On this morning, the sun will rise after ten long years; on this morning, he is finally home. Beyond the throne room the Citadel looms in onyx and fire, and there’s nothing left in the world to regret.

And the words, they call like a whisper from the past; perhaps once lived, perhaps not:

 

_(Whether it’s me, or some memory of me, I’m always here)_

 

But on this morning Noctis Lucis Caelum is thirty years old, and he is no longer afraid of death.

 

 

 

 

\- fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of Amber Run,
> 
>  
> 
> I'm old enough to know I'll end up dying  
> and not young enough to forget again  
> it's all a fickle game  
> life's a fickle game we play
> 
>  
> 
> That being said, I always feel like when I write something sad, I'm morally obligated to write something happy in return. Or rather, want to - if just to restore balance to the universe or something, haha. So I might do! Not sure if anyone's interested in reading it, but we'll see. (Let me know if you do, though, and I just might bump it to the top half of my current writing queue - the next thing I'm gonna finish is a Gladio/Ignis birthday fic for a certain Pizza who's bravely put up with my ranting about Noctis and Prompto for hours on end...)
> 
> Anyway, as usual - hmu @ icecreambat on tumblr and twitter if you feel like talking about these two idiots or ignis' best recipes or the glory of kenny crow or whatever.
> 
> And last but not least: THANK YOU FOR READING.


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